The Lake House
by sahdah
Summary: Summary: Soul never imagined he'd meet the girl of his dreams, but chance, a cat, and a very peculiar mailbox change his fate. There's just one catch: they live two years apart–in time. When life threatens to tear them apart, can Soul convince Maka to give him one last chance before time runs out? A Soul Eater spin on the movie by the same title, The Lake House.
1. Part 1

****warnings**: language, car accident, mild alcohol use**

 **A/N: This is my contribution to ResBang 2016 from Tumblr. A special thanks to the betas Marsh of Sleep, Professor Maka, and Redpflox who cleaned up this beast and made it so much better! Also a super special thanks to tumblr users Feather97 and guessesmachina for their beautiful art contributions to this piece. Please see my profile for details on my tumblr page which will have links.**

* * *

 **THE LAKE HOUSE**

It's Saturday night. She's crying silently on her bedroom floor as the heat of the emotions overwhelm her- her heart is racing. Why is it so hard to put a name to what she's feeling? What is this? It can't be love, love-shouldn't feel so physically painful.

A book is clutched to her heart. Silent sobs wrack her body. There isn't enough air in her lungs- she must look like a gaping fish because Maka Albarn doesn't cry. Especially not over the ridiculous notion of _love- true love._ A love that can cross through time and space.

 **Maka**

The morning dawns cold and crisp. Fog curls over the water as the sun crests the hills. In a few hours, she'll be locking up the house, moving to the city, to start- well to start over, basically.

She's a year shy of thirty, and already she needs to start over. Her green eyes scan the few items she has left to pack, the chore a heavy burden. Moving away shouldn't be this hard. Blair, her cat, curls around her ankles as if she knows how difficult it is.

Something about this place draws her in- Maka is meant to be here, but she can't stay. Some things aren't meant to be, and anyway, she's done with thinking about this. Her decision has been made: she is moving to the city to be closer to work, closer to something. Something real.

Minutes tick by quickly, almost as if sensing her impending doom. And then it's time, she's locked the front door, walked across the planks that bridge the lake house to the shore. No longer a tenant; she's now a stranger to the property.

It really is an exquisite piece of architecture, and she knows she's going to miss it. Industrial iron meets light and airy in a study of contradictions, it's too-sharp angles softened by warm wooden floors. Vast expanses of glass had given her an unobstructed view of the lake, of the world- seen but untouched. Not unlike herself, in an odd way.

All too soon, the bridge ends, the painted paw prints on its planks left behind. Her big boots crunch on the frosted gravel as she makes her way to her old Mustang parked next to the wrought iron mailbox. The mailbox gives her pause; she's received mostly political flyers, magazine subscriptions, and the odd take-out menu. She hadn't seen a need to discontinue her PO Box in town, where she travelled every day.

Thinking of the mail makes her think of the lack of communication she has within her family. Most people looked forward to birthday cards, perhaps some card at Christmas time, maybe even the occasional postcard. Maka gets junk mail.

One would think a mother and a father would remember to send their only child something- anything-but they're too wrapped up in themselves. Selfishly living their own drama's, too busy to even place a stamp on an envelope.

Mother- mother had left Papa and married her work, instead. Her father was too busy with the flavor of the week, and when that wasn't the case he was on business travel. That was the year Maka ran away to California; she was sixteen.

Mama was, after all, one of the top surgeons in the country. The doctor achieved this distinction after so many feared she'd fail (for having a child during grad school). They were wrong. That (read: Maka) was such an insignificant event on the road to her professional success that it never really made an impact for her. No child, nor husband would keep her from her vision, and as for Maka, what little girl didn't grow up wanting to be just like her mama?

Marika Albarn is a dream Maka aspires to. Maka has lived years under the notion that if she worked to surpass her mother, one day her mother would notice her. One day, Marika will realize that she had left her daughter behind when she had walked out on Spirit.

She had foolishly clung to her, loud-mouthed with a strong penchant for sky blue hair, childhood friend Blake, confusing the emotional attachment for romantic love. When he devised his half-cocked plan to conquer California and become the god of surfing, he asked her to come along. It was the first break from her perfect attendance, perfect school records, and perfect (albeit from the outside looking in) life- her one reckless moment. It wasn't without some half idea of her own that _this_ would be the moment her mother noticed Maka had been left behind, that her daughter needed her.

In the end, it was Spirit, her papa, who came.

Papa showed up a week later, after having tracked her down through the Barrett's, Blake's adopted parents.

With time and distance, she saw her relationship with Blake for what it was: kindred friendship forged out of a common upbringing, martial arts tournaments, and convenience. They stayed in touch for a time, and the last she'd heard he had met a beautiful Japanese woman by the name of Tsubaki Nakatsukasa. A sponsored surfer herself. Maka could only wish them well.

With the distraction of Blake gone, school and the goal to become a nationally recognized surgeon soon took over her life.

And finally, finally, after so many years of hard work, the day had arrived. Hence her impending move to the big city- she had accepted a position with Death City Regional and would be starting Monday. Would Marika finally write, now that Maka had achieved her goal? Perhaps not, but the lake house was the last address her mother had- not that she ever made an effort to contact her here.

Opening the car door, she grabs a pen and a clean sheet from the journal she keeps in her day bag. There is one last thing she means to do. On the off-chance anything should be delivered out here, she decides to scrawl a note to the next tenant, something about the light making her nostalgic and inspiring her to pen more than she'd planned to.

Dear new tenant,

Welcome to the Lake House. I hope you enjoy your time here as much as I have. I set up mail forwarding, but if it's not too much to ask would you please pass along any that gets by? My mailing address is below. Thanks!

Maka

PS: The paw prints by the door were there when I arrived, as was the box in the attic.

Double-checking the address for her new place on her phone, she adds it along with her full name after the post script. It's a point of pride for her to maintain neat penmanship, something her field isn't known for. Surgeon's hands, layman scrawling- not for her. Folding the paper, creasing it carefully, she opens the mailbox and lays the note inside. The front shuts with a metallic click. Before turning away, Maka raises the flag of the mailbox as an afterthought.

Heaving a sigh, she starts her car, the engine roaring in the quiet of the morning. "We're ready now, aren't we, Blair?" The cat mews softly, staring out of the windshield.

The sun catches the curtain wall, painting the window panes golden. Would she ever see this place again? She turns her classic '68 Mustang around in the gravel drive, biting her lip. It's best not to stare longingly in her rearview at the house, because it feels as if she's losing a best friend.

* * *

It's been years since he's made the drive out here. The road twists and turns, familiar in some way. Foreign in others. He's lost in thought and unfocused on the present. Belatedly realizing this as he reaches the turn-off sooner than anticipated, he grits his teeth, the tires of his old truck squealing in protest. He looks in the rearview, anxiety pooling in his stomach, but the straps on the trailer hold.

Winter clings to the lake region in the early months of the year, snow still present under the trees where the shadows prevent it from melting. He's lucky he didn't lose Matilda driving like a fool- Matilda being his bright orange sportster.

At long last he's arrived, parking the relic at the end of the gravel drive. Slowly, his heart returns to a normal beat and he gets out. The air is cold and humid, which chills him to the bone. The weather- fuck this whole move- has sapped the life out of him. This place has a way of doing that to him. Which begs the question, why did he choose to come back?

 _To start over?_ Soul wonders bitterly. This might very well be an exercise in stepping backward to move forward.

Soul shuts the truck door behind him, walking to the retaining wall at the edge of the drive, hands buried in the pockets of his worn leather jacket. He eyes the property before him. The house, if you can call it that, sits on stilts over the water, connected to the drive by a wooden walkway. The facade is glass; there is no privacy, no place for retreat- it's a place to be under constant scrutiny. It's disconnected from nature in every way. Cold and calculated. Home sweet home. He scoffs.

Had it really been so terrible? Shaking the thought, he turns back to the truck to get his bags. Besides, he only has himself to blame seeing as he chose this isolation.

Stark hair reflects back at him from the driver side window, and he opens the door, long since used to the frustration that burns through him. Along with the white hair, he has red eyes, and his face lost the happiness of childhood long ago. These days his features are permanently set to resting bitch face. He grits his teeth, yanking the bag out and shutting the door. He knows his features aren't what keep him isolated from society, it's more or less his attitude. Why bother?

Boots crunch on the gravel when something red catches his eyes in the overall landscape of muted greens, grays, and dead browns. The flag on the mailbox is up, signaling correspondence. Which is a little strange, but never the less, he detours to open the old iron box and pulls out a crisp, folded piece of paper. Whatever it is, it can wait until later, so he tucks it under an armpit.

Soul sorts through his scant key ring, selecting a bronze relic and fitting it in the door. A click later and the door swings in. He drops his bag next to the kitchen island, placing the folded paper on the countertop. No one has been out here in ages and he's got work to do.

Inside, the temperature feels hardly any different than it does outside. First things first, call the utilities to verify the service windows his brother planned.

Wes had been genuinely excited when he got the news, even if he was the only one glad of his return. They hadn't exactly talked about his choice of living quarters, but the great thing about Wes was that sometimes, he actually let things be. Instead of starting the Spanish Inquisition, Wes offered to set up the utilities and service times, something that makes Soul eternally grateful.

Forty minutes later, after confirming all services, he sets his cell next to the paper from the mailbox. He stares at it a minute before picking it up. Soul reads through it quickly, and places it back on the countertop, confused.

"Pawprints?" he says aloud, feeling stupid. He could have sworn... no, there was nothing on the walkway. Retracing his steps back to the glass door, he confirms it- no pawprints. And after several minutes, he locates the attic access through the utility room; it's difficult to make out shapes in the gloom without electricity. After his eyes finally adjust, they confirm what he already suspected. No box.

Back in the kitchen, he scans the note once more: paw prints on the bridge, box in the attic- none of that. Why would this _Maka,_ he re-reads the postscript...Albarn point out random shit that's not there? No one has lived in the lake house to his knowledge since- well, in years. It's disconcerting, but this place makes him feel that way in general.

The following afternoon, he brings home supplies and gets to work. Cleaning glass during cold weather is out, but he clears out gutters, removing old tree muck, and checks the roof for any signs of leaks or damage. Finding none, he climbs down.

A cat sits on its haunches, watching the young man work. Sunlight glints off golden eyes. Licking a paw demurely and setting it back down on the gravel, the cat leaves its spot and heads for the gangway. Silently, it approaches the man who is painting the handrails on the bridge. With the grace of a charging rhino, it stomps through the paint tray and makes a beeline to the front door.

"Hey!" Soul yells, completely taken by surprise, and gets up and quickly running after it. Only when he's about halfway to the door does it strike him: pawprints that begin at the middle of the bridge and head towards the door. "Hey! Come back here." _Fucking pawprints._ He gives up on his chase, and doubling back to the kitchen, he picks up the letter thinking, _What are the odds?_

Decides to check the attic but still- no box.

 **Maka**

Work at Death City Regional is quickly settling into routine for Maka. Her first few days were hectic, but with Dr. Stein as her mentor, she is sure she will have all her questions answered. After all, he was her father's school roommate and even worked with her mom at DCR, long ago.

Earlier in the week, she got tripped up on the floors and room configurations until a kind-hearted nurse took pity on her. It is possible that Marie Mjolnir could become a close friend- only time will tell.

Today, she is finishing up her morning rounds so she can meet Papa at the nearby plaza for lunch. It is Valentine's Day, and to be honest, she's rather surprised Spirit wanted to share lunch with her. Maybe it's their own day of mourning- Mama has been gone sixteen years now. Replacing her last file at the nurses station, Maka grabs her lunch bag and jacket.

The plaza is a short walk from the hospital, and she picks a spot overlooking the street. Shibusen Academy is in the distance, the tall spires reaching towards the periwinkle blue sky, hardly a cloud in sight. How can it be this nice on Valentine's Day? She sits eyes closed, face tilted to the sunshine. Without sunscreen her freckles are sure to have a hay day.

"Can you believe it? Seventy degrees on Valentine's," Papa says, by way of a hello.

Spirit, forty-eight, has hair as bright red as it was the day Maka was born. She highly suspects he dyes it, because he looks like he hasn't aged past forty.

The looks women give her when she and Papa are out turn her stomach. If he's being especially affectionate, which he is prone to be, she can feel their stares oozing judgement. It had dawned on Maka, not long ago, that she is coming to an age where she looks like she could be dating her father. She shudders at the thought. The gross truth is he's probably dated people as young as her.

"That's what's commonly known as global warming, Papa." Maka says, opening her eyes. She stares at the extended bag with trepidation. Papa isn't known for age-appropriate gifts of any sort. "What's this?"

Papa smiles- it's a great smile. Again, Maka fears for her propriety. The man has no limits. "Pumpkin, it's just a little something for today."

Wearily, she takes the package and, _oh thank Death,_ it's chocolate. The delicious, expensive kind, with a note of fatherly pride about her becoming a doctor just like her mama. "Thank you," she says quietly, gifting her papa with a rare smile.

He sits down, giving her a mercifully quick side-arm hug. Maka clears her throat, pulls out her lunch bag, and divides up the contents. They sit in companionable silence- in this way Spirit and Maka are similar.

"Now that you're settling into work, when can I expect my grandchildren?"

The record scratch is audible only to Maka, who looks up to find her papa merrily munching away at his sandwich, oblivious of the bomb he's dropped.

Maka can feel the vein in the side of her head pulsing, the desire to chop him overwhelming. Alas, she has no medical textbook at hand. Is he serious?

"Papa." The sound is nails across a chalkboard.

"You and Kid- weren't you all in talks about settling down?" He looks so monumentally confused.

Her heart softens a little, "Papa," really it's none of his business. "Mort and I broke up nearly a year and a half ago." Except that she had already told him. This is typical- he never listens, and she gives him the look Mama used to when trying to explain things to him. "I told you. It happened over my birthday."

When Papa looks down at his lunch, crestfallen, it hurts. "Oh," he says, searching for something to make it better. That's how he's always been. "I just, he's working for his father's mortuary. He treated you so well…" The observation hangs in the air between them.

Maka sighs, shaking her head. "I didn't love him. Or maybe I did. I don't know."

If Papa is keeping quiet, he must really be taking the news hard. She might as well come clean now. Love, and all of it's inherent grossness, isn't something she sees in her future anymore. Not with how things ended with him and her Mama.

Before she can say anything, he opens his mouth. "If you love women...that's okay, too. Anybody really. I would be okay with that, as long as they treated you well and made you happy. That's all I want for my little girl."

Green eyes stare at blue. There are no words at the moment.

"Ah Papa, that's okay. I have a cat." _What sort of response was that_ , she wonders. "I don't believe in love. And I appreciate your openness in accepting any future partner, but I'm not like you, Papa. I don't want to live my life wondering when I'm going to let someone down, or waiting to be disappointed-"

If Spirit is hurt by her words, or if he is going to make some reply, it never comes. At that moment, the peace of the plaza is shattered by the screaming of wheels, a shrill car horn, and the sick sound of impact.

The world slows down and speeds up all at once.

Maka drops her lunch, launching herself from her seat and whipping out her cell phone as she runs to the scene: a bus had collided with a motorcycle and car.

 _"_ _9-1-1 what's your emergency."_

She says, "This is Dr. Albarn with DCR, there's been an accident at Death Plaza," the name suddenly taking on a morbid chill. "We need an ambulance, stat. A young- man was hit by a bus and thrown from a motorcycle, other possible injuries-" she pauses to yell at a man to back away, to go get help. She's finally reached the driver of the motorcycle who is face down on the asphalt, unmoving. Her phone clatters to the ground.

Save him.

Maka is on autopilot. A hollow ringing fills her ears. Her eyes are glued to her hands, seeing nothing but textbook guides to field-checking and triaging her patient. A full helmet encapsules the head- to remove it would be potentially more harmful, so she opens the visor to make sure he can breathe. It's dangerous to move him before the EMT's arrive, what is taking so long?

His pulse is weakening. Where the hell are the EMT's? He couldn't have landed in a worse position. Each minute is precious. They're flying by. She is doing nothing.

...

Hours later, Dr. Stein rolls in to find her in the break room.

"Maka."

The sound of her name hangs in the air, waiting for acknowledgement. At the moment, nothing seems more important than committing the pattern of the tile to long term memory. "Mhm?"

The office chair wheels squeak as he comes to a stop behind her. "I heard about Death Plaza. The EMT's Rung and Ford said you fought hard for him."

If by fighting hard he meant wasting time waiting for proper procedure, unable to do a thing, then, sure...she fought hard. Maka really doesn't want to discuss this, choking out a tight, terse, "Yup."

"You know, I've seen my fair share of new residents during my tenure. Maybe you'll be the first to listen. Do me a favor, Maka, when you get a day off, get as far away from here as you can. Go to a place you feel most alive."

When she finally lifts her gaze from the tiles, ready to face her mentor, he is gone.

...

Two days later finds Maka on the road out of Death City. Could the city developers have picked a more morbid name? Heeding Dr. Stein's advice, she decides to return to the grounds around the lake house.

It's strange that she would miss the place as badly as she has been.

Blair mews, stretching in the sunlight-warmed passenger seat. Maka drives without a care.

After the familiar twists and turns of the drive, she finally arrives at the gravel lot that overlooks the lake house. No other cars are in sight, and she suddenly wonders, why is she here? The house no longer belongs to her. In all honesty, she is trespassing.

The gear shift is rammed into park a little more viciously than she originally intends. _Fuck it,_ she thinks recklessly, she's only here to walk around, to clear her head. Opening the door, the cool air smells fresh. The weird energy she is feeling dissipates when she gets out of the car.

Seeing the lake house- the realization of it being the first place that had truly felt like home, hits her like the memory of the bus accident. Her heart shudders.

A yowl alerts Maka that her cat is awake- she watches as her little beasty stretches and then follows her out of the vehicle, apparently recognizing the old homestead. Red catches Maka's eye; the flag is up on the mailbox.

After a moment of indecision, curiosity begs her to check the mailbox, but she came out here for the scenery not the mail; she follows her faithful cat down one of their favorite paths.

…

The coolness of the morning is burning off, and not even the curlleaf mountain mahogany can keep the heat at bay. Her sweater is tied to her waist by the time they've circled around to the car. Blair beats her to the mailbox. Circling around the base, her tail wraps around the post as she sits to lick a paw.

Gravel crunches underfoot as Maka walks up to the wrought iron box. She looks around, not wanting to be caught checking someone's mail, in case whatever is inside isn't meant for her, before opening the lid to peek inside. There is a note. And, her name written on it in bold cap style lettering. Squinting into the gloom of the box to be sure the light isn't tricking her eyes, Maka snatches the note, flipping it open as she walks to her car.

Dear Ms. Albarn,

I think you might be mistaken. To my knowledge, no one has lived in the lake house for years. Perhaps your note was intended for the O'Lantern-Dupré cottage down the road. Although, I am curious about the paw prints.

S. Evans

There is a sharp exhale of angry breath leaving her nostrils. What a flippant piece of work. "No one has lived here for years?" she hisses, out loud. Acknowledging that it's crazy to have such a visceral reaction to someone who she's never met- and who might have better penmanship than herself- is not to be borne. She is Maka Albarn: she's never wrong. She can feel the bemused stare of her cat as she drags out her leather-bound journal from her bag. Willing herself to take several deep breaths, she pens another message.

Dear _Mr._ Evans,

I'm very familiar with the O'Lantern-Dupré _cottage_. Call me old fashioned, but I don't think a cottage should be over 6,500 square feet. Allow me to try this again. I used to live at the Lake House, and then I moved. My address is 1800 N. Black Cat Drive, Death City, NE. I would ask that you please forward my mail, should you receive any. And, by the way, it's 2016. Has been all year, ask anyone.

M. Albarn

With a flourish, she caps her pen. Stomps to the offending mailbox. Yanks the lid open, deposits her note, and flips up the flag. Now she just feels ridiculous; it's not as if he has a clue as to how frustrated she's feeling. There is a wordless shriek muffled by her pursed lips. Flippant man!

 **Soul**

Soul arrives home as the sun is setting across the lake. Shuffling to the mailbox, he grabs the letter without paying much attention. He's tired after a long day at the job site, but there's still work waiting for him at the Lake House. The toilet's been leaking, and he's picked up the piece it needs on the way home. Should be an easy fix.

The cat, which seems to have adopted him, mews from the front deck, welcoming him home.

Opening the letter, he reads as he makes his way across the bridge, not focusing on the words as he walks to the front door. His steps are an even rhythm across the wooden planks, echoing with a dull hollow sound.

Such rhythm has always come naturally to him. Eva Evans, his mother, loved music; she had been a first chair flautist with the Death City Symphony years before Soul was born. Father had insisted on architecture. That hadn't stopped mother from seeing to it that Soul had musical lessons. He had a natural gift with the piano, but it hadn't progressed further than that.

A loose slat clanks against the iron with a discordant sound that catches him off guard. Quickly, he rereads the line about the date: _2016?!_ What the hell does she mean by that?

The rest of the evening is a blur as he goes about his work. The contents of the letter irritate him more and more as he becomes increasingly frustrated with the only menial task on his list, fixing the leaky toilet. It is with an exhausted sigh that he finally heaves himself into bed, one part bemused to three parts aggravated by this enigma of a woman.

On the opposite side of the bed, the cat stares at him. And he wonders if the cat isn't laughing at him.

...

Soul stares at the grandiose sign. Elliott Evans, FAIA. Well, Pops never did shy away from blasting his name into the stratosphere. Bitterness colors his thoughts- memories of all the Architect of the Year or something bullshit he had to put up with, of never being good enough as he grew up fill his mouth with distaste.

In the afternoon shadows of the buildings, the air is crisp for March. He buries his hands deeper in his riding jacket- his favorite, even when he doesn't drive Matilda. Spits out the seeds he's been chewing, red eyes fixed on the revolving doors. He isn't here for the crotchety old bastard, anyway.

There is a flurry of movement as the spinning doors finally reveal his doppleganger- to the untrained eye. Upon closer inspection, one would notice significant differences: white blond hair, dark brown eyes, and if the man smiles he'd reveal straight teeth. This is Wesley Evans, better known as Wes.

"Little brother!" Soul's big brother.

Soul's face is a mask of apathy, but it doesn't throw Wes off anymore. The younger Evans is enveloped in a bear hug by the elder. "It's good to see you." His brother says, pulling away to examine Soul's face more closely. "Did you have any issues with the utilities?"

Wes has never been great at letting him speak, not that it bothers Soul- he is the quieter of the two, always lost in his own world.

"It went well." Wes looks at him skeptically. "It did. Thanks for setting up all that shi- stuff."

Soul is spared the twenty questions by the flourish of the door, behind them. The gentleman that exists is lithe in frame, the once-blond hair fading to patches of silver, but still full and styled. As he exits the building, it's clear the older gentleman is lost in thought. Soul observes him, trying his best to ignore his now-racing pulse.

Almost as if he's heard his name called out, Elliott looks up, at first unseeing before recognition dawns on his features. It is a pained look, which vanishes behind a mask of apathy as quickly as it had formed. After a stuttered step, he brushes off the visual contact, briskly walking away from the pair that look after him.

It takes a moment for Soul to realize the grating sound he hears is actually his teeth grinding together in his mouth as his jaw clamps shut. Great seeing you too, Pops.

"Screw him," says Wes. "Look, let's go get a beer, so you can tell me where the hell you've been and what you're doing for work."

Soul nods, indicating the truck behind him. His brother expresses disbelief over the thing still running as they climb in and head off.

Thirty minutes later sees them at Deep Six Bar and Grill.

Death City is known for its odd death related naming habit. The citizens and business owners rally behind this. No one quite understands how Deathbucks hasn't been sued yet.

"You're managing for Charon and Styx Construction?! You know father would die if he knew." Wes has a rather gleeful look in his eye. "So, can I tell him?" Why his brother thinks eyebrows are meant to be waggled after ridiculous exclamations, Soul will never know.

"It's work, Wes," he says, voice low- tinted with annoyance.

His big brother resumes examining the neck of his bottle of pale ale. "So, I couldn't find Google images of your place. Where is it again?"

His brother would find out about the house eventually, so he tells him. "I bought the lake house."

"You _did_ sell out if you're making enough to own a house on the lake." He pauses to take a drink of his beer, but the bottle stays suspended between the bar and his mouth. "Wait, you bought _the lake house._ Fuck- I thought the address looked familiar, but couldn't place it." The beer sloshes as it's set back on the table, untouched.

"Yeah." Soul's face pulls into a tight grimace. "I did. And, I even own a cat." He picks up his own bottle and takes a swig, waiting for the question.

He watches as his older brothers eyebrows knit together. "Does he know?"

It's Soul's turn to set down his drink with a slosh. "Nope." The word pops from his mouth, like a teenaged girl popping gum.

"Wait, what possessed you to get a cat? You hardly take care of yourself."

Soul nods in agreement, "It adopted me." The unspoken rule is, the cat did so of its own free will, so it will see to keeping itself alive.

"Does it have a name?"

"Cat," he says, managing to suppress the eyeroll. "Enough about the cat, and the other bullshit. Has he let you design anything?"

Wes finally takes the drink. "No, he's a bitter old man. Do you really think he's going to let me waltz in and start designing things? You were right to leave. I was an idiot for staying."

To say he's gaping would be an understatement. He's viewed his older brother as he-who-never-screwed-up, literal golden boy of the family all his life. Soul has always been reduced to hiding in the shadow of one Wesley Damon Evans- top of every architecture class, with some renown due to award winning school projects featured in the alumni national newsletter.

"Do you still think about it?" Wes looks expectant, like Soul should understand what he's talking about. In reality, Soul is trying to process the question.

Shaking his head, he wonders aloud, "Why I left?"

By Wes' expression, that wasn't it. "No sharkboy, do you still think about _Resonance Design_?"

He cringes under Wes' skeptical gaze. Resonance Design was a late-night brain child of Soul's.

Of course he thinks about it. It's his own opus to architecture. The idea behind it had been to create places for people to unwind, to resonate in their private space and truly live - not just a place to reside and whittle life away. In a way, his designs would be the foundation, the staff paper for the homeowners to fill with the melody of their lives.

With these stupid, romanticized notions of what architecture could achieve, no wonder his father doesn't respect his ideas. "Yes, I think about it."

Tossing out a few bills to cover the tab, he gets up. His tone terse and clipped, he says, "Look, Wes, I've got an errand to run. _Resonance Design_ is off the table."

Something about the look on Soul's face must be convincing, because his brother doesn't press any further. The younger waits as the elder finishes his beer. They collect their coats and head back out to the truck.

...

They've arrived at what looks to be a construction site, and Soul's eyebrows knit together a little further, his unease growing with each step. This can't be right. He double checks the map on his phone but there's no mistake: 1800 N. Black Cat Drive.

It's gotten colder and his brother has his hands buried in his trench, his nose is buried in his scarf. "Are you supposed to meet someone from the jobsite?" His voice is muffled beneath the fabric.

 _This is ridiculous,_ he thinks, but says. "No, I was going to drop off this letter."

"For the project manager?"

It's a fucking construction site. Walking around the corner, he sees a banner: _'1800 N. Black Cat Drive, Luxury Apartments coming soon!'_ What is this? First the wrong dates. Now this? The complex isn't even slated to open for another eighteen months! What gives?

Wes stamps his feet for warmth, his own confusion mirroring that of his brother's. "Soul? C'mon man, you're gonna get sick."

He never gets sick. "Yeah, yeah- I'm coming."

...

Soul pens a snarky post script response to _the_ Ms. Albarn when he returns home. With glowing amber eyes, Cat the cat observes his palpable annoyance as he amends his earlier letter, tail gently swishing.

P.S. I went to 1800 N. Black Cat Drive. It's not there. From the pictures it looks nice, but not for another 18 months. Am I missing some cosmic joke here? Perhaps you got the address wrong, 'cause I noticed you got the date wrong too!

S.

In the morning, he stuffs the envelope into the mailbox with little ceremony, wondering again why this lady is worming her way under his skin. He is the epitome of cool, goddamnit. Know-it-all girls with nothing better to do than to send him on willy nilly goose chases shouldn't have any effect on him.

* * *

Tired of her hectic work week, Maka is anxious to see the countryside.

A week later is the next time she can make it out to the lake house. Upon her arrival she checks the mailbox; afterwards, she wishes she hadn't bothered. Because what she finds makes Maka shriek. The birds in the nearby trees take flight, unaccustomed to the ancient sound of their prehistoric ancestors.

The tone of his letter!

...

Blair lies on the bed watching as the severely annoyed doctor frantically searches through her pictures on her laptop. She's searching for specific proof because he doesn't believe she has the correct year.

Alright, Mr. You-got-the-date-wrong _S. Evans!_ Two can play this game.

If he thinks he's so smart, his elegant penmanship aside (seriously, did he take writing classes from Mr. Darcy?), he has something else coming for him.

Checking the date on her calendar on the wall behind the computer, she scans ahead- something about the date had triggered an old memory. "Aha!" she crows, eliciting a yowl from a surprised feline. "Hope you like the cold, S. Evans!"

Two trips in less than a week, why must she be so stubborn?

After work she had gone to the mall, the first time in a long time since she has had any business perusing in the men's section. The attendant had given her a skeptical look when she asked about scarves.

It's true, in April most places are turning out their summer merchandise. As luck would have it she found a lovely cashmere one, a deep, rich crimson, discounted 75%!

Deep down inside, she's surprised by the euphoric feeling her errand and the drive have elicited. She's giddy at the prospect of being totally right- He's going to be in for a rude awakening. Either that, or she needs to work less and rest more.

 **Soul**

The wind is picking up; instead of the temperatures rising, they're falling. Work has been shit, lately. The project is progressing slowly. His foreman is fighting his management.

Having a game plan always makes his job easier. He might look like he's sleeping to the untrained (read: Ramirez's) eye. In reality, he's weaving a complex work of art: he is the composer, guiding his trades to do his bidding.

The construction work, his music. Coordinating the different subcontractors accordingly, everything is coming into place. So long as his workers don't fight his direction- they're bright, and they're catching on. Still, though. He rubs a sore shoulder, doing his best to ignore the tiny tickle in the back of his throat.

Feeling drained, he opens the mailbox. Something red is caught in the wind. Surprised by his reflexes, he catches the tail end of the red scarf and thinks, what now?

Alright, my mysterious S. Evans. I'll play along. If you really are where, and _when_ you say you are, you're going to need this. There was a freak late snow the spring of 2014, everyone got sick. So, be sure you're getting enough fluids, and rest. Doctor's orders.

-Maka

Soul doesn't believe this. It's crap. Mother Nature will show this...Maka! What is it about her name that makes his chest flutter? It's stupid. It sounds like something a ninja would yell before karate-chopping a piece of wood in half. He visualizes it, that stance from The Karate Kid, and a battle cry of 'Maaakaaa Chop!' He snorts, or was it a cough? He doesn't waste anymore time out in the cold.

Inside his kitchen, he's still very much skeptical as he pours himself a bowl of ramen with a large portion of broth. He breathes in the steam. _Is_ he getting sick? It's bullshit; he's paranoid now because she's putting things in his head.

The steam admittedly does make him feel a little better, so why do his feet feel so cold? Is the heat even on? That's the downfall of living in a glass-enclosed box. Even with the highest thermal coefficients, and light reflecting window film, the place is still affected by the outside temperatures. He blames the designer with a mental scoff, knowing full well who designed this mockery of a fish bowl.

Since the house has radiant floor heating, it is generally a quiet space. So, when he hears the faint sound of...sand pelted glass? What the hell is Cat doing? It sounds like she's flinging kitty litter at... the windows? Except her box is nowhere near them. He looks up, squinting at the inky blackness that reflects his skeptical, haggard expression. It can't be.

Oh hell no, it is. Snow.

To top it all off, he surprises himself with a huge sneeze. Which makes his head feel like it's been bludgeoned by a hammer. Simultaneously he's feeling cold and hot. Finishing off his soup, he wraps the red scarf around his neck. This isn't good. He hasn't been sick since before Mother died- it hurts to think about that, so he focuses on finding medicine instead.

Shuffling to the bathroom, he rummages around his medicine box. Relieved to find a pack of cold/flu medicine, he chooses to ignore the expiration date. Take two and call me in the morning, he thinks roguishly. He spies a small blue tub of Vicks and snatches that, too.

Wrapping himself in his worn terry robe, he can't shake the cold. Soul wonders about Maka. Is she a doctor? Her tone comes across as bossy and nerdy enough to be one, or a nurse, something brainy.

A pair of woolly socks in his hand, he hopes the medicine kicks in soon. Slowly he rubs the Vicks on his feet, they're so cold. Cat mercifully decides to cuddle his toes. If only for that small act of comfort and kindness, he's glad Cat adopted him.

At long last he can feel his toes warming up; finally, better living through chemistry. The medicine must be taking effect, because he's slowly starting to feel comfortable.

Soul burrows into the scarf. It reminds him of his mother; it smells clean with hints of eucalyptus, sage, and pine. What sort of person is this Maka? These are not native smells to this region. It strikes him that this is the first gift he has received in a number of years and he's genuinely touched. It's the last thought he has before he falls asleep.

...

Howling winds fill his head for most of the night and he sleeps fitfully. When morning finally dawns bright and clear, there is a dusting of snow covering the grounds. In the corners where the windows were installed improperly, frost glitters in the sunlight.

Soul is awake, none the worse for wear, although it feels like he pulled an all-nighter and then lost a fight with a hangover. At least his throat doesn't feel raw anymore. Maybe aged cold and flu medicine works better?

Damnit all, though, he has to figure this out. It's going to gnaw at him. So with a determination he seldom feels at nine in the morning, he shrugs on his old Carhartt work coat over his bathrobe, pulls on his boots, arms himself with a pen and notepad (just in case), and shuffles his way out to the harbinger of doom known as the mailbox.

He scrawls a quick note, places it in the cold steel box with trepidation, lifts the flag, and backs away slowly. It's so fucking cold, though, that he only waits a moment before he decides to walk back inside and stake out the mailbox from a more comfortable location.

* * *

Maka awakes, elsewhen in the world, feeling giddy like it's Christmas morning. After a quick breakfast, she scoops up Blair and decides to go see if anything has come of the red scarf.

The drive goes without incident, and twenty minutes later, she's armed with a cup of Deathbucks coffee, staring at the mailbox before her. The flag is up. With hesitation, because even if she's right this brings more questions, she opens the lid to reveal a note.

Can this be happening?

The note leaves so many questions. If that's all he has to say about the matter…

* * *

Sou is halfway across the bridge and as the cold air blows through him, Cat rushes past in the direction of the mailbox. That's up to it- if it wants to freeze Soul isn't going to put a stop to Cat's madness. As he's turning back, something creaks. It takes him a moment to realize that the mailbox flag just went down. The fu-? There's no way the wind is strong enough to move it; it's barely at light breeze strength.

Soul eyes it like it's filled with contents under pressure. Something unknown is going on here. Just as he reaches it, the flag goes up. Oh no, no no. The weird shit radar is going off in his head. It feels like he's got goosebumps on top of goosebumps. His head swivels from side to side trying to figure out what has happened.

Finally he arrives at the conclusion that he's just going to have to go for it. He did sort of plan for this. If not, why had he brought out his pen and pad? With a deep breath, he hooks a finger under the metal pull, whipping his hand back to open and simultaneously try to flee if the need should arise. Probably looking like a dumbass, 'cause he sure as hell feels like one.

The envelope he wrote on is there. So maybe the flag did fall, and he's freaking out over nothing. And then it catches his eye, and he's pulling the envelope, incredulous at what he sees.

Why not?

 _Why not?!_ Sweet mother of all good things. This means- he's not sure what it means. He concedes that perhaps his rhetorical question needed to be met with another. She's witty. Why does he feel like he's in middle school about to pass notes?

* * *

 _Why not?_ What is happening here? So many questions are running through her mind as she walks back to the car. Calling for Blair, she turns to search for her cat. Blair is sitting at the base of the mailbox pawing at the small column.

Maka opens her mouth to repeat herself when- the flag goes down. It feels as if someone has doused her with cold water. She has been facing that general direction the whole time. She's frozen, coiled tight with anticipation. It's humorous how she startles when the flag raises on its own, her arms prickling with goosebumps. This can't be happening. It's not possible. The young doctor approaches the mailbox with the same caution with which you'd approach a wild animal.

Carefully and cautiously, she hooks a finger under the metal pull. Yanking, the lid opens with a metallic bang. She'll not run; she'll show courage even in the face of the unknown.

There is a new note on a different sheet of paper- not written on the envelope she had scribbled on.

Impossible, I know- not possible, But, what the fuck, something is happening.

A gaping mouth is Maka's only response to this. It's his handwriting, her note is gone, and then flag? What is this? It isn't time travel, they're two years apart!? How is that even possible? Has there been a tear in the space time continuum? Should NASA be studying this? She has so many questions.

Running to her car, Maka grabs her journal and scribbles something back.

* * *

Soul watches with morbid fascination as the flag drops, a few minutes pass, and the flag raises. No one is here- it's just him and Cat.

Okay? Where are you?

The paper is different, but her handwriting is there, on the sheet. His head whips around quickly, but he knows the answer since he's been standing here the whole time. His pulse has quickened as he exhales forcefully from his nostrils, snorting. Dumb question, where else would he be? Scrawling on a new page, he places the note inside, raises the flag, and waits.

* * *

Maka watches the flag dip and raise. _Clever._ This is so strange.

The new note contains all of three words.

The lake house

She titters. "Ha, very funny." The sound of her outburst bounces around the open area reflected back from the glass of the very place where _he_ claims to be. No, she's done playing this strange little game. A dull ache is forming in her head because it _just isn't possible._ Why? Because she, too, is at the lake house. And she's not going to be the fool who keeps addressing this prank outloud, _good bye S. Evans._

* * *

Why is he out here in the cold? After suffering last night, if he's going to get better he needs to get inside. Soul only abandons his post after Cat decides they've had enough. Reluctantly, he follows his only companion back into the house. The rest of the day is followed by random peeks to see if the flag has moved. It hasn't. This definitely qualifies as a loss for his cool. Cool men aren't ghosted by stupid mailboxes.

By the end of the week, the snow has cleared, and his fascination with the mailbox has receded to the back burner of his thoughts.

 **Maka**

How is it possible that they are two years apart? Not in age, well maybe in age- no, she's sidetracking herself. No, two years apart... in time. It defies all logic. It's impossible; completely into the realm of the unknown. The thought feels like it's driving her mad.

As a child, she had loved science fiction. Now she's not so sure. Again she wonders if she should report this. But really, what's the harm in not reporting it since it appears to only concern her and this Mr. S. Evans?

That is problematic. From everything she's read as a kid, it isn't time travel. They appear to be advancing at normal time progression. That leaves the possibility of a worm hole, maybe? Or, she theorizes, while staring at her ceiling, Blair's tail twitching next to her, it could be some sort of time loop. Ugh, it's utter insane bullshit is what it really is.

What Maka thinks she needs to do is: stop thinking so much and get to focusing on work again. Except, she can't. Because she seriously doesn't have time for this- whatever this is.

Have their fates become inexplicably linked? And if so, how? Why? To what end? Is there something that is meant to be changed by this wrinkle in the space time continuum? Because she sure as death isn't sure about any of it.

With a flabbergasted sigh, she places the book she's reading over her face. She's complicating the shit out of this. Honestly, who could she explain this to and not come across as certifiably mad? Her papa is out, he's too practical. Marie? No, Maka wants to be friends and this situation could derail that. That leaves Blair.

Blair is the only one she has to bounce ideas from. A muffled sound of exasperation escapes the book. "Maybe we should just introduce ourselves?" she questions the silence under the printed pages. Blair only mews in response.

* * *

He's lost Cat. It's gone, nowhere to be found. Soul stopped to purchase cat food on the way home; now he's home and Cat isn't.

Everything is silent for a moment while he thinks. That's when he hears the yowling. Turning to the windows that overlook the drive, he sees the feline in question, circling the mailbox. How had he missed her when he walked in? Wait! The mailbox with the raised flag.

The flag!

He hates the panicked excitement that flares through him and decides to take his time collecting a pen and pad (again, just in case). Now that the cat has been found there is no need for him to rush, right? _She_ , on the other hand, could be gone, though. Deep breaths, he reminds himself. Deep, deep breaths.

Finally, he's outside standing before the mailbox. There is a note.

Dear Mr. Evans,

Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot. My name is Maka. I'm a doctor, a surgeon really. I'm going to change the world-

He digs out his pen and pad and prays to any deities who happen to be listening, that she's still there. Open. Shut. Flag up. Let's do this.

* * *

Maka thinks that the most bemusing part of this experiment is the ghost flag moving up and down of it's own accord. How quaint, really, this worm hole of a mailbox. Smiling, she pulls out the note. And she's pleasantly surprised to see he's dispensed with the formalities. Good, so will she.

I build. I'm an architect. I can't say I particularly like my current project but it allowed me to come back to this place, the lake house. I'm curious, you're a doctor now. May I ask, where were you before- In my time?

An architect, that explains his fancy handwriting. Maka stares at the note in hand. He's already asking where she was in _his_ time, as if he owned it. Anyway, why is her heart beating more rapidly? It is the first time in a long time she's felt any sort of exhilaration. And, if their fates have been tied through this loop, what harm could come from telling him?

* * *

The flag dips, his heart skips a beat. The flag raises and his pulse quickens. Seriously? Cool guys should have absolutely no problems chatting up girls from the future. Grinning like an idiot, he pulls out the note.

Two years ago, in your time …

Soul studies the series of taps on the page, imagining her thinking. Does she chew on the ends of her pens? He thinks of all the pens he's ruined that way.

I was in Boulder City, doing my residency at the small hospital there.

He isn't sure why, but her lack of expanding on her explanation gives him the feeling she must be a guarded, private person. Fuck, Soul's a private person, and in this conversation he's the one who's spilling his life history.

Scratching his head, he tries to think of something cool to ask to redeem the fact that he's probably said too much already.

* * *

A giggle bubbles from her, without permission. It's hard to help it; he's somewhere, presumably at the lake house, some _when_ in time, writing to her. And before she knows it, she's laughing in earnest; she just knew he was going to go there eventually.

So, tell me about the future. How are things in the year 2016?

A devious part of her feels like she owes it to every trekkie fan out there to mess with him. Even as she's trying to formulate her response, she thinks about the world. How fast does it really change in two years? In some ways her life is every bit the same, she's still working in a hospital, but she's alone now.

It's probably best not to bore him with the details, she decides as she answers him.

* * *

By this point, Soul is sitting on a lawn chair (he ran to get one after he set the last flag), figuring there's no sense in being uncomfortable. He's popped the tab on a beer and marvels at just how pathetic he's become in his old age. The flag squeaks the announcement of another note.

Well, to be honest, the world is pretty much the same. Oh, but they did finish building a spacecraft: the USS Enterprise (it launches next month), the guy that invented Facebook has taken over the world, and no one talks anymore because we have the iPhone 7 and it plugs directly into the frontal lobe.

He knew he had her pegged for a nerd. But, if that sad excuse for a "winky" smiley face next to that last sentence is any indicator, she's being facetious.

The truth is, my past tense friend, not much has changed in 2016.

Soul knew it. From the things he observes, the world changes slowly. Even with the advances of technology, architecture lags. He thinks of some of the movements. Modernism moved in to Postmodernism, and that's moving into sustainability- green buildings the wave of the future, until something better comes to push the envelope.

Speaking of the past, though, I've been thinking about the paw prints. Any idea how that's possible?

Cat mews, licking a paw demurely.

* * *

Blair yowls for Maka's attention, who has retreated to the hood of the car to soak up the sun while she waits. Maka sits up, seeing the cat pawing the base of the mailbox. The flag is up.

I've been thinking about that. I think we have the same cat.

Blair mews again. Well if it's true, about them having the same cat…? She strokes the soft fur between her ears, imploring her cat to spill the secrets of her previous owner. As if the poor thing could.

* * *

Soul reads the words quickly. It should be noted, he's never been a fan of reading much of anything. But there's something about her words, the way she writes, it reminds him of notes on staff paper. Perhaps it's because she rounds out the curvy letters so much, or on the p's she makes such a straight line. He sniggers. It isn't music, and if it was it would be monotone, but the cadence of her writing…

Oh really? What's yours like? Mine, according to the vet-

Good grief, he realizes he hasn't even thought about taking Cat to the vet. He should ask his project office admin to make that appointment for him.

...is eight years old, ah, six in your time. She is beautiful, so black and glossy she nearly shines purple, vivid ocher-yellow eyes, she snores, and she sleeps like a person. I call her Blair.

Perhaps it's because as he's reading, Cat lets out a soft snore, waking itself up, that Soul does it. Really, he has no explanation as he calls out 'Blair' and Cat mews contently and circling his leg once, jumps up to his lap, places both paws on his chest, then licks his nose. _The fuck?_ Soul swears it- no, she- gah, no, Blair!- smiles, then disappears in the direction of the house. That is some fifty shades of too weird shit for Soul.

Does he really want to get involved with this kind of strange ju-ju? Forget time loops, or nerdy shit, what if it's more sinister, something like...witchcraft? _That's it!_ He's decided, since she left him hanging last time, that he's o-u-t, out! He got the hint after fifteen minutes; she's already a bigger brain than he is. _Star Trek,_ he scoffs. He's sure she'll be gone before she grows mushrooms on her head. He doesn't owe her anything.

Not bothering with the lawn chair, he stomps back inside.


	2. Part 2

**Maka**

Maka is in the hospital break room with Marie. It's past midnight, and they've finally gotten a moment to themselves. The older, pretty blond nurse is one of Maka's favorite people at the hospital.

Marie is kind, with a radiant aura that gives Maka the feeling of standing in an open meadow in soft, golden sunlight. Marie doesn't pry, and sitting in silence with her never feels awkward.

In front of them a TV is playing an old black and white movie. The kind her mother used to watch, the kind that made Maka curl up to her side, and then sigh dreamily when her parents would kiss. _Stupid romance movies._

"Do you think she should marry him?"

Marie's voice startles Maka- had she uttered her annoyance out loud? Looking from Marie to the TV, she can't decide if Marie is asking her, or inadvertently asked her own rhetorical question out loud.

"Uh," Maka gapes, trying to reason this out. She watches the scene a moment, "he's kind of old. Isn't he?"

Marie doesn't break her eye contact with the television, soft laughter filling the air. "He's not that old."

Objectively speaking, Maka has to concede the point. So the man in question perhaps isn't as old as she might think, relatively compared to Marie's age, but to her he's old.

"The last man I dated was bald." Marie says it like it's the most matter of fact thing there is.

So, Maka thinks, going by that comparison, the man isn't old at all. Although, hair loss is hereditary and even young guys can be bald, the young doctor reasons silently to herself. She isn't sure what to say to this at all, so she hmmms in the nurse's general direction.

Marie continues, unfazed by her friends silence. "He was nice. But, I wasn't going to marry him."

Her throat has gone a bit dry, "Oh?" This is beyond her comfort zone. Mama left, and Papa has been attempting to move on to something better. "I was comfortable- he was good to me. I wasn't in love with him. Then I met someone new, it feels so much different. It's not perfect, but it makes me feel alive."

Feelings about relationships make Maka uncomfortable. She has absolutely no idea what to say to any of this.

Changing gears on Maka, faster than Dr. Stein cranking that strange bolt in his head, Marie continues referring back to the movie, "She looks happy. Do you think she should hold out for something better?" the nurse asks, indicating the woman on screen.

Is that all there is in life? Waiting for something better to come around? Maka really doesn't know.

As if thinking about him made him materialize, Dr. Stein rolls into the break room, increasing the level of awkward in the atmosphere. Both women watch him roll to the refrigerator and pick out something Maka is sure belonged to one of the nurses from last shift, then roll back out. But not before he gives Marie a long look, who by this point is staring pointedly at the TV, although it's on commercial.

Maka startles again, when she looks back to her mentor, only to find him facing her, eyes hidden behind the glare in his glasses. She blinks, then he is gone. That's when it strikes her; Marie isn't asking about the woman in the movie, she's asking Maka for real advice.

"Ah-Maybe," she offers, with a confused tone. Why is Marie asking her? Her experience in the romance department is limited, at best. Black hair and odd white stripes fill her memory and she sighs. She never felt anything, not with Kid. Then, curiously, a memory of white hangs in her peripheral, like a word on the tip of her tongue, but never fully solidifies.

Mama isn't with anyone, she's married to her career. Papa, he's never been the same. Slowly, she answers, picking her words carefully . "She could wait, but by that logic she might spend her entire life waiting."

Maka tries to ignore Marie wiping at her eyes, feeling as if it's a breach of privacy. The small woman rises, adjusting shapeless scrubs that fail to hide a shapely figure, smiles at Maka, then walks out the door in the direction of Dr. Stein.

 **Maka**

It's another week before Maka can make it back to the lake house. Slowly, it's becoming her sanctuary. The place she goes to escape everything. Nothing has had this kind of pull on her. She can't wait to reach the mailbox, and she hopes- she both hopes and dreads him being there.

* * *

Soul wonders if he should have said good-bye. _He fucking should have said good-bye._ His leg twitches at the kitchen counter as he eats his breakfast. Damnit, he's probably never going to hear from her again. He walked away because they have the same cat? He's the one who suggested it in the first place.

A week later his decision to blow her off makes no sense. _Stupid!-_

Blair jumps onto the counter, mewing.

"Hey!" Soul squawks, "get down, Cat." Old habits. Calling her Blair would be the shameful admission of how he'd walked away.

In response, she yowls. What the heck is wrong with the cat? That's when the light catches the movement of the flag going up.

With an undignified scramble, Soul pushes his stool back, the metal screeching, Blair hisses at him and jumps from the countertop. For whatever reason, this reminds Soul to grab the pad and pen he's been keeping on the end of the countertop. You know, since he can't just message her from his phone like normal people.

Sorry I've been unable to make it to the mailbox. It's been a long week. All night shifts.

Be cool. Be cool. Be fucking cool...

* * *

Green eyes watch the flag with fascination. That hardly took any time. Maka smiles as she takes a sip of her coffee.

Good to hear from you. I thought you might have left me. You should know, you're my only connection to the future.

Maka can't help the laughter. What a dork. Then, the next line catches her eye.

Tell me about the things you like?

Huh, he seems genuinely interested. So she sits down, crossing her legs to write.

* * *

Waiting is torture, that's what Soul's decided. Especially since by playing it cool, he just knows he's come across as the biggest needy shit this side of the continental divide.

"Way to go, dumbass." And he's now talking to himself...aloud. Well if he hadn't scared her off before, he's sure as hell done it now.

Then again, he thinks as the mailbox makes that familiar creak, maybe he hasn't.

Hmm, well, losing myself in the library, and Netflix marathons with Blair, we like the cooking shows. What about you...?

Shit, he hasn't even told her his name yet, and she picked up on that. He's grinning; she sounds intriguing. And he's struck by the idea of wanting to do something with her, even if it's as simple as watching a movie with her, but that isn't good enough- he wants it to be special.

* * *

Maka flips another sheet, trying to absorb the words on the page. It isn't working. Mostly, she's wondering what his name actually is. Simon? Stephan? Samuel? She'll know soon enough, and she tries to tamp down on a small flutter of butterflies. A small part is curious about the things he likes.

Nothing prepares her for what she reads next.

Ah, ha ha, you got me there. My name is Soul. I love this city. Maka, if you're not busy this Saturday, would you take a walk with me?

Reading it a second time doesn't lessen the peculiar feeling she has. What a strange name, "Soul." She tries it out, liking the way it wraps in her mouth. And he's asked her to go on a walk around the city. Why, why would he go through this sort of trouble for her? No one has ever gone through the motions to do something like this.

So, with a mild mix of trepidation, she decides that she is going to partake in this, this _social experiment_ of sorts. After all, she really won't be walking _with_ him. She'll be on her own, and if she doesn't feel comfortable, how's he going to know if she bails?

…

Saturday morning dawns bright, the promise of warm summer weather quickly burning off the early-day chill.

Maka secures her hair in her trademark youth twin tails. To hell if she's a doctor now, no one said that intelligent women should be reduced to spectacles and top knots. It's fun seeing people react to her on casual days when they find out what she does, not that it comes up often. Most people (men, not that she's interested, Thank you very much,) tend to write her off as a child.

After applying sunscreen liberally to her bare shoulders and long legs, her running shoes are tied and she deems herself ready to go on this adventure.

At the mailbox, she discovers a map of Death City, a sheet with song names and artists, and an accompanying note.

Alright Dr. Nerdbrain -

Really? She thinks his tone is more teasing, and she's laughing anyway so...Dr. Nerdbrain it is.

Attached you'll find the map. Before we get to walking, please use whatever magical devices the future world has for listening to music, here, we use iPods. Once you've got the music ready, we'll begin at station 1, and if you walk to the beat of the songs (assuming you can follow music?) we should make it to the end by the end of the soundtrack. I'm going out on a limb here that the music I've picked still exists in your time.

-Soul

It's Maka's turn to laugh. Who's showing his nerd card now? It's obvious music means a lot to him. Biting her lip for a moment, she hopes she'll be able to pick up on the walking beat to the songs he's put together. Music isn't one of her strengths. It's funny, he must really love it, his attention to detail impressive.

Maka decides that parking at her apartment is probably the wisest course of action. Double-checking the list, she sees that he's planned it around the vicinity of her location.

An unbidden thought forms: he's planned this, he could just as easily ambush her. He's basically a stranger. All the locations are marked, as well as the walking path- logically he would have had to plan ahead two years and a week to ambush her. Well...she can bail, but deep down inside, her curiosity is going a hundred miles an hour. She wants to go. So she takes a few precautionary steps.

[[Marie, can I ask a favor?]] Reasoning she can ask her friend without having to give a full dissertation of the logistics behind this whim, she picks texting Marie versus texting her father.

[[How can I help :) ]]

Maka breathes a sigh of relief, quickly texting her request after snapping a picture of the map. [[I'm going on a walk. It's a new route. Just trying to be safe, if I don't text you back in an hour or so, could you check in on me?]] She hates feeling needy or asking for help, but it's better to be safe than sorry. Ten years ago it might have been a non-issue, but you can never tell when someone might be possessed with madness and attack a pedestrian.

On that happy note, she reaches over to her glove compartment, loading up with her taser. After that, she cinches up her twin tails, studies the map one more minute and mentally makes checks for safety stations at each location. She's being proactive, she has her mixed martial arts training to fall back on if need be, but she'd rather not have to rely on that.

A beep signifies a message. [[Do you want me to go with?]]

[[No, I'll be fine. I promise.]] Maybe she shouldn't do this.

[[Okay! Send me a selfie from the locations, sounds fun!]]

Oh, that's actually not a bad idea. Maka is deeply grateful for Marie being understanding about this. She locks her car, checking the map while walking a couple of blocks to the first location. Feeling a tad ridiculous like a tourist in her own back yard- taser on her hip, walking water bottle in her hand, phone and map in the other, (only one earbud in), a protein bar, a little money, and her ID tucked into a fanny pack- she's ready to start. Thinks, bring on this adventure, Soul.

Dutifully sending her first selfie at her first location, she queues up the music on her phone. The song is catchy and fun, which goes along with the architecture. Then she can't help it, she's smiling, the neighborhood is nice, there are cute shops along the route, a few people are out but not many. It's later in the morning than she had planned.

The songs change as she walks and the scenery changes with the music. It's actually quite brilliant what he's done. Later, she plans on listening to the music when she can actually turn it up louder. At the moment it's reduced to basic background noise because she's still adamant about being able to hear.

The places he points out are so fascinating, and she hopes they haven't changed as much from his time to hers so that she experiences them in the same way he has. A tiny cemetery is in a neighborhood she's driven by, but she's never noticed it. A community garden, assortments of buildings with old facades, and odd, interesting houses. Each place gets its dutiful selfie, but she's not really checking her phone for responses.

By the end of her walk, her bottle is almost empty, and her heart feels heavy. It's been exciting and interesting, and safer (she thinks ruefully) than she thought it was going to be. One thing was missing, though, and the twinge she feels in her gut is strange until she realizes that she kind of wishes her guide could have actually walked her through this.

A horrific thought grips her: what if he's married? He could have just as easily been kind to her because he comes across as a genuinely nice guy. Why hadn't she considered this possibility until now?

She returns to the small shopping center she saw at the beginning of her walk. And she is taken by surprise, her heart nearly jumps to her throat as she hears her name. Had he really decided to ambush her?

"Maka!" There is frantic waving up ahead.

Shit! She knew this was going to happen- and then she heaves a sigh of relief.

"Shit- shit, I completely scared you!" Marie is frantically waving at her. When the nurse catches up to her, she's apologetic. "I'm so sorry, I thought you got my messages."

Maka is trying to settle her frayed nerves. Before she knows it she's laughing, feeling slap happy.

"Here," the buxom blond is pushing a cold bottle of water into her hands. "You probably need to get out of the sun. Have you eaten lunch? Gah, I'm so sorry."

Sucking down cold water is starting to give her brain freeze, and she's also trying to settle down. "No, you're fine Marie. I'm being paranoid. Lunch sounds good."

A series of dings starts coming from the doctor's phone. Glancing at the screen it flashes with Marie's messages, the last of which is "Let me know about meeting for lunch?"

The messages, of course, had been delayed because she was using other apps. Marie is still offering her apologies, and Maka, feeling better, drags her friend to the Mediterranean place she had messaged Maka about.

Two gyros, a few olives, and some pita and hummus later, Marie sucks on her tea mulling the conversation over.

"So he made you a walking map, to show you locations he's fond of, along with a playlist."

Maka can feel the blush working its way down her neck, she swipes her pita through the hummus, humming in response to the question.

"But it's long distance?" Marie looks as her skeptically popping another olive.

"Yup." It's best not to delve into the details of the type of "distance" they were traversing.

Marie opens her mouth a few times to say something, changing her mind shutting her mouth before at last she asks, "Well did you have fun?"

"I did." It's a revelation; fun doesn't happen that often.

"How was the playlist? What sort of music was it?"

Maka watches the hummus disappearing, feeling embarrassed she admits, "I think I need to listen to it again, I was making sure I wouldn't get jumped."

Marie's golden eye observes Maka across the table. She's never told the doctor how she lost her eye, but her patch doesn't detract from her loveliness. In fact she looks like a new-aged, stylish hippy or a bohemian pirate to Maka, in her light-colored tunic and sandals.

"He said to pay attention to the beat," Maka explains feeling pressured. "I couldn't even say what the words were."

Marie's lips purse and she nods her head, apparently satisfied.

Lunch topic moves into the safer direction of work, and eventually Maka says her goodbye, making a note to spend more time with Marie outside of work, when their schedules allow.

It's on her way back to her apartment when she sees it. It must be meant for her, but how? It looks so old, the style is distinctly his- a script she's come to recognize. Graffitied over older street art and partially covered by some new tags is a message: _Maka, I'm here with you. Thanks for the lovely Saturday together._

Her pulse beats faster. He _did_ walk with her, but not the way she thought. There is tightness in her chest; she's misjudged him. Chagrin and shame burn through her.

The rest of the afternoon goes by in a whirl of laundry, cleaning, and some minor essentials like grocery shopping. Anything to try and sort through her feelings.

A thought pops into her head; if curiosity killed the cat, she's doomed. Maka had made sure she kept herself busy the rest of the day to fight the urge of returning to the lake house- to fight the pull to get to know Soul better.

Evening is spent with Blair in her lap while they catch up on the latest episodes of Chopped. She's distracted as she rubs the soft fur behind her cat's ears, who sleeps contently. Men complicate things, cause hurt, and are only after cheap thrills.

Deep down in her heart, she knows this isn't true of all men. But it's hard to fight against the thought, especially after living through the aftermath of her parents' divorce, her papa and the revolving girlfriends, waiting for Blake who never once made any attempt to reconnect, and Kid...

Mortimer Vladimir Thorne III, who preferred going by Kid (and who could blame him) was a good man, kind, respectful, and well... complicated. Maka blinks, the memory of how they actually started dating alluding her. She stares at the television neither hearing, and hardly registering what is happening. Oh. Finally, it clicks.

She met him at one of the small bookstores in Boulder City. What she wanted was a change in pace from her regular literature, which included most of the classics. He was muttering to himself, a stack of books next to him, and what caught her eye was how quickly he was placing them back on the shelves.

When she asked for help, he surprised her as he turned to her- dressed impeccably, his eyes were a cat-like, bright yellow, curious white stripes in his tidy black hair. He quickly explained that he didn't work there, but the fact that the books were arranged pel mel without any thought to symmetry was frustrating indeed.

It had somehow been endearing. He ended up recommending a book entitled " _Her Fearful Symmetry_ " and even asked if it would be okay if he paid for it. Taken aback by his kindness, she had agreed. Afterward, he had asked her if she would like to join him for a cup of coffee at a nearby cafe, and they chatted. His intelligence and well-poised manners made her feel at ease. She had asked if he would like to meet up a week later to discuss the book. At first he declined so quickly she felt stupid for having suggested it, but he offered to meet her next Saturday, as it was a week plus a day. Eight days being a much more proper length of time. For her part, she found it curious, but it was a nice change of pace. He hadn't asked her for her number, only to meet next Saturday at three in the afternoon.

And as some things go, a week and a day later found them arguing good-naturedly about the actual symmetry of the book, what they did, what they liked, future plans, and the likes. Eight days after that, he'd asked her to dinner, and before they realized it, they were dating. It was a very chaste relationship, and when they finally broke up, it was for the best.

Maka lets out a disgusted sigh, throwing her head back on the couch, trying her best not to jostle Blair. Two failed relationships later, and she's ready to let some mystery guy in at the drop of a mailbox flag? Who is she? What has she become? Well, it isn't romantic, and with a mailbox as the gateway, she's certain that line can't be crossed. So what's the harm in developing a friendship?

But, first things first, if he's in a relationship...she's setting firm boundaries.

* * *

Soul startles awake, blinking in the semi-darkness of I-don't-know dark thirty. Piano keys are permanently molded to his face. It's a blessing that he lives alone with the exception of Cat/Blair; she doesn't count. It's not because he's a needy piece of shit waiting for the mail that he fell asleep at the piano. Okay, maybe it is. It's complicated.

On a scale of one to ten, he's felt attraction maybe... never. It's not that he doesn't find the female form beautiful- he does- it's just what's been inside has never held much attraction.

In high school when he had wanted to date, the girls he had interest in were more interested in themselves. Or jumping in the sack. So he never dated. Harassment came in the form of homophobic slurs, or other shit. Being a pussy for not wanting it. No, the reality was he just wanted more. Something outside of just the physical. Resting bitch face became the defense, and not giving fucks the mechanism of his school existence.

It still happened, even now. At first the office admin, Liz Thompson, had made a few attempts at tempting him but he didn't feel anything. Smart, self assured, with a nice figure, but nothing resonated. Now, she was something like a friend, and even friend is a strong term- she's more of an acquaintance.

Wes, on the other hand, loved anyone. Soul didn't get it, much like Wes didn't get Soul. That shit had been put to rest long ago; these days he doesn't give Soul as much grief, but sometimes the pity is bullshit. Soul doesn't feel broken because he isn't with anyone, or less of a man because he hasn't met someone he wants to "fuck their brains out". That's how Big Brother said he'd know. Honestly, hand and shower work just as well.

In college he watched the obligatory rite-of-passage porn, but it was not his thing. He doesn't read about it- even in the shower, it's not like he thinks of some nameless woman's lady bits. It feels good, it relieves morning wood, he's done, he cleans, and it's off to the world for the next round of same shit different day.

Except, right now, he's got a problem. He adjusts his junk. His pants have become restrictive, and he's no idea why. In fact, what woke him up was one fucked-up dream about him doing the mailbox. He shudders, thanking the powers that be that no one will ever know about it, and gets up. It's after four in the morning- he's not even sure what time he passed out. It's Sunday.

Glancing at the mailbox- the stuff of nightmares now- he sees the flag is down. It's for the best. Christ, it's for the best. He doesn't need to get attached to some person, just because it's safe and easy. What's safer than this side of two years and one tear-in-the-thread-of-the-time-space-continuum mailbox?

After he showers, he falls into bed. Hopes he won't wake up before noon. He wants to drop a note in the mailbox, curious over whether or not she enjoyed the walk. Was his playlist too sappy, weird, irrelevant? Can his thoughts go fuck themselves? If she wants to talk to him, he'll talk back. After all, she's probably in a relationship- she's a doctor for crying out loud. Even if she's busy, he's pretty sure people find her kind attractive. What if she is attractive?

Soul chastises himself; it's stupid to be thinking these things. It doesn't matter if she's attractive, and even if she isn't, it's better if she's not. The point is ridiculous- what does he find physically attractive anyway? And basing a person's worthiness on their level of perceived attractiveness is uncool. So he doesn't think about it. She is who she is, she's in a relationship, she's probably attractive to a certain demographic, she's a woman, and more than that, she's a person, and he'll respect her wishes. Anyway, he's the one who would probably turn her off. White hair, thirty, never really dated, red eyes- fuck, _red eyes_ \- yeah the mailbox is a gift.

…

Hours later he wakes up, this time woodless, thank Death. Another growl from his stomach and he's shuffling to the open kitchen and the fridge. He pops the carton of the milk open and guzzles for a moment. Setting the carton on the counter, Soul loads up with the bacon and eggs, picking up an onion from the countertop.

Bacon and onions sizzle merrily, the smell drawing out Blair from wherever she's been hiding. Soul cracks a few eggs into the mixture, mixing while he drinks his chocolate milk. Eva used to make it for him and Wes as kids. Cheers, Mom, he thinks as he turns the heat off the eggs.

Mom's been dead twenty years, already. It passes more quickly than he'd like to admit.

Chewing slowly, he eventually finishes breakfast, wipes down the countertop, cleans the plates, putting emotions away with the dishes. And then Blair yowls from the front door. All too quickly, his heart starts racing. He's going to die young from the stress.

Grabbing his chair and supplies, he walks out to the mailbox.

Hi Soul,

I can't help but wonder, why? Why are you going through all this trouble for me?

Good morning to you too, Maka. He's not sure what to make of the tone though.

You know I nearly had a heart attack yesterday, I kept thinking you were going to ambush me or something. Thank you, for not ambushing me.

Jeezus, fuck- he hadn't even thought about that.

And how old are you anyway? Most of those songs are from my dad's time. They were good.

Finally the note stops and it's time to set the record straight.

* * *

Oh good gracious, Maka knows she's done it. That last message is going to freak him out and he's going to stop talking to her. But for the time being, the mailbox says no.

Maka, I'm so sorry.

She has to re-read the sentence, because that wasn't how she thought he was going to respond.

The thought never crossed my mind- to take advantage like that. That's not cool. And wouldn't that change the future or some shit?

Oh! Well now this just proves she's misjudged him.

For the record, I'm thirty. Death damnit, you're not a kid are you? With being a doctor and all what are you like, I don't know over 21 at least? You do sound like a brainy genius, so?

Huh? They're the same age... no, technically this makes him two years older. It's so strange.

* * *

Perhaps cussing at her isn't the best way to endear her to him.

Great! The day is already going to hell. It would be infinitely easier if he could just talk to her in person. For obvious reasons, this isn't happening anytime soon. Way to mess everything up, time.

Communication with a woman in the future throws his isolation into perspective. With strange looks and social anxiety, he's the perfect recipe for hermitism. Pride keeps him from reaching out to his father, and life keeps him from his brother. Aside from the cat, Maka is the only meaningful relationship he has.

The flag signals he is not alone.

We're- well you're older technically, but we're the same age. I wasn't Doogie Howser genius level, but thanks for the vote of confidence.

She's married, he just knows it. There's no way a witty girl- woman like her could be single. Mystical space alignment just doesn't work that way.

What about you, you creep? You'd better not be hiding a wife like some low-life scumbag!

He's scribbling as fast as he can, oh no, no. If she's asking about his personal life, she gets to tell him first.

* * *

Maka opens the lid as soon as the flag is in its vertical position. Frown deepening as she reads, she realizes this is their first argument.

Oh yeah, my debutant wife, she's great. Arranged marriage, you know.

It makes no sense. The flag pops up again.

What about you? You love your husband…

And suddenly it's a little bit funny. She feels the need to squash any hope though, because even if he is being facetious about his "debutant" wife, she can't compete with _that_ ideal of a woman. Maka is self conscious of her petite, curveless frame, and she doesn't have the familial financial background for that sort of thing: high circles and wealth.

* * *

Soul has no idea what he's doing. One moment he's prepared to lay it all out, the next he's baiting her? They banter easily, and he likes it. Maybe too much.

Well, of course I love my husband.

Shot through the heart, he only has himself to blame.

Who is also a doctor, plastic surgeon- for small farm animals. And our eight children, none of which look like me. I'm worried Soul.

Laughter breaks the relative silence of the lake, followed by the scratching of his pen. It's time he comes clean.

* * *

It's going to be bad if he can't take a joke. Maka scratches Blair behind the ears- she makes the best companion on these trips to the lake house.

I would be too, Maka.

Maybe she stares at her name, written in his hand, longer than she should. The flag raises again.

I'm single.

It's an affirmation, she thinks, not an invitation. Their banter was only to be sure, for her part, that she wasn't stepping on someone's toes. He could be lying; she thinks it's something Papa would do. Then she scolds herself, because Soul isn't her Papa. Her journal feels heavy in her hands.

* * *

Yeah? Me too…

The cat watches as her companion punches his fists in the air. Tail swishing in the summer heat, she licks a paw and gets up to walk to the house.

 **Soul**

Something about finding out she's single makes Soul feel brave. If that's the right word- he certainly feels something. Regret is probably forthcoming he thinks, parking Matilda outside the highrise in the heart of downtown. He's here to return something to Elliott.

And the bravery he thought he felt is quickly disappearing. He shoulders the architectural tubes and makes his way past the doorman, who gives him a skeptical look. Dressed in his riding leathers, yeah, he gets it. He's always looked out of place in his father's world anyway.

All too soon, he's at the door of the penthouse, arm hesitantly raised to press the call button. Does he really want to open this can of worms? Not in the slightest, but he does anyway.

The door swings out, automated. Soul walks in to the sounds of big band swing, most likely from his grandfather's heyday. His father has some amazing vinyl in his possession- thanks in part to Eva, her music connections, and the albums she kept from Grandfather's collection.

Music- a collection of sounds and rhythms that has the power to transcend time was- nice. Important even as part of the beaux artes. Father would quote Nietzsche, many a time: "Life would be senseless, without music." Ah, but he would be damned if any son of his were to try and make a living from it alone.

"Come to see your father at last?" Elliott is at the open kitchen across from the foyer, pouring a glass of wine. Soul watches him swirl the contents, inhale deeply, and take it down in one gulp before he pours an actual glassful.

History has taught Soul to wait.

"Sorry about the other day, I was busy," Elliott says by way of apology for the brushoff the other day.

Had Elliott actually stopped that day to say "Hello son," Soul may have met an untimely death from the shock of it. But for Elliott to even admit he a. Noticed his son, and b. Brushed him off, deserves some sort of acknowledgement, so Soul grunts. At this point it's whatever. They stare at one another until Elliott picks up his glass and moves up to the study that's a half floor up off the dining area.

Being a stranger in his father's house isn't new. The prodigal son crosses the formal living area into the kitchen.

Elliott regards him from his vantage point. "Well, have you learned to appreciate a good glass of wine yet?"

Preferably, Soul would take scotch. He needs something stronger to deal with Elliott and his bullshit, but now isn't the time. "Yeah. I have." It's another grunt, as he takes a glass from the hanger on the wine rack. Mimicking his father's actions, he pours a small measure of the, most likely overpriced, cabernet sauvignon, inhaling the distinct notes, and then drinks it. He fills his glass to the appropriate level to deal.

'So-" and here it comes, Soul thinks. "You'll have to forgive your father for being curious, but where the hell have you been these past years?"

It's not like Elliott wants the truth. No, his father continues. "I thought your music fiddling days were behind you!"

Soul pretends not to hear him over the sounds of the old style gramophone. "What?"

"What?!" His father yells back and as an afterthought invites him up to his work desk.

Soul takes the opportunity to shoot his wine, setting the empty glass down with a forceful clink on the table. Taking the stairs slowly, he looks around the open study on the way up. It is surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, all stuffed to the brim with volumes ranging from classics, architecture, and the music books that belonged to Soul's mother. The desk itself is cluttered with scattered manuscripts, a journal, and an ashtray still holding a half-smoked Cuban cigar.

Soul stands, observing his father, their conversation stalled. And because he is three parts apathetic to the one part curious, he asks, "What are you working on?"

Elliott has always been one of those painfully obvious types that wants to toot his horn to anyone who will listen. The older gentleman fiddles with his Mason's ring, "Oh, I'm just- remembering things." He looks uncomfortable, "...It's not such an easy thing, you know. Nor is it particularly innocent your father's case." Elliott pauses in what Soul can only label _dramatic flair._ Continuing in third person like he had earlier, "Your father is writing his memoirs."

If Soul wasn't so schooled at keeping his exterior expressionless, he might have guffawed at his father's declaration. And dammit all, he really _is_ curious now, and the question is more or less unbidden. "Are we in it?"

The Evans men stare eachother down until the elder says, "Well, what you think? Do you want to be?"

Typical dad, answering a question with a question. Soul asks, "Do you?"

"Of course," Elliott answers. "You were all a part of your father's life."

Soul's had about enough. "Why are you talking to me in the third person?"

Elliott lets out air through his nose, at a loss for words, apparently. "Well, I- I don't, know. Because I'm writing about myself, I suppose." Pushing away from the desk he eyes Soul with disdain, "Why, doesn't it suit you?"

The straps of the drafting tubes dig uncomfortably into his shoulder; it's past time he got to the point of his visit, because no, Elliott speaking in the third person has to be one of the most entitled and pretentious things Soul has had to put up with in some time, and it does not suit him.

"I thought you might like to have these," he says tersely, setting the drafting tubes in front of his father.

Elliott takes the brush-off in stride, eyeing the containers. "What are these? Something you've been working on, no doubt?"

"No," Soul replies simply. "They're yours, actually." Elliott doesn't seem convinced, so Soul continues, "from the house I just bought on the lake."

"Oh yes, I heard." This time his father looks away, brushing off the tubes, "They said some sleazy general contractor snatched it up."

It's difficult not to grind his teeth in his father's presence but Soul keeps it to a clenched jaw.

"Oh come on," Elliott says as Soul turns around. "Indulge your father. Can't you take a little joke, for Christ's sake?"

The laughter his father emits sounds strained, but he persists. "C'mon. Where have you been? I really want to know."

As if wanting to know really has any sway over Soul. He turns around anyway, eyeing his father who has gone a bit crimson in the face. The silence stretches until Soul says, "I was trying to forget you. Or forgive you." Not that any of it really matters now.

"Did you succeed?"

The men stare at one another. "No." Soul resigns. With that, it's obvious the visit has come to an end. "If you need help remembering, let me know."

He's halfway to the foyer when his father calls out, "I will."

 **Maka...**

...is dead on her feet. It feels like madness working in a hospital for thirty hours straight. It isn't good for her, or her patients. Dr. Stein tells her as much.

"Go home, you've done enough." The light reflects from his glasses. Maka wonders if he is glaring from behind the glare. It's all she can see of him from where he sits backwards on his office chair, which he rides like some sort of mechanical stallion. It takes everything she has not to start grinning like an idiot while giggling at the silly mental image.

Dr Stein with his white hair blowing in the wind, galloping through the halls on his mechanical stallion, white lab coat thrown open to reveal dirty dime store novel abs, and a corseted Marie clinging to him in a dress straining to contain her heaving bosom-

It is time for home. And death help her, may she not have nightmares.

Four stops on the light rail later, she's walking to her favorite take-out place, Pho Better or Worse. It's definitely for better. The whole place is aromatic with all the delicious herbs, and Maka plans on chowing down on some pork pho and passing out. Even now, she's swaying on her feet, only half-conscious. After she pays, she walks the block-and-a-half to the apartment.

Blair greets her at the door with the saddest expression. Guilt settles into Maka's gut- the litter needs changing, and the cat's been alone for over thirty hours. Her neighbor, Ms. Azusa, feeds Blair when Maka has to work late, but she won't change the litter. Finally, when her tedious task is over and she's given Blair a Fancy Feast (by way of apology), she sits to eat her meal- now lukewarm...

Hours later, Maka opens her eyes, disoriented; it's well after eight thirty in the evening and the orange hues of the sunset are the only light in the gloomy room. Given the fact that she's still wearing her scrubs, she must have sleep-walked to the bed. There is an uncomfortable crick in her neck. Blair is nowhere to be seen.

She feels like a slob. These days, all she can manage is waking, working, wondering about her seemingly uncertain future, and sleeping. She's boring. Thinking of the walk Soul took her on, she resolves to get out more, even on the days she'd rather just sleep, because exhaustion is taking its toll.

Shuffling to the couch, Maka pushes back her resolution for the evening- after all, it is late. So after failing to find something to watch, she gives up and crawls back into bed.

Fourteen hours later she bolts up, Blair scrambling from the bed hissing and spitting. Maka's spine tingles in the aftermath of the dream she was having- she doesn't quite remember the details now as she thinks about it. It had something to do with the car accident at Death Plaza, as though she were the person driving the bus.

Sleep deprivation has to be the worst kind of hangover. She's wasted half of her day. It's frustrating because she was planning on driving out to the mailbox earlier than this. Really, why does it have to be so complicated having a friend from the past? Wouldn't he also be present now? Maka shakes her head because that's a dangerous thought. Soul is in the past, she is in the now, and if she wants to talk to him, she will drive out to the lake house. That's the way it is.

With renewed vigor, she runs around the apartment, cleaning up last night's abandoned meal. She picks out the least wrinkled shirt from the dryer and a more casual skirt from her bedroom. A couple of hours pass before she makes it back to the familiar turn-off and eventually parks in front of the Gate-keeper- the mailbox.

Before she writes to Soul, she walks around the property; the water level has receded a little. Otherwise, it's lovely. The air is dry and hot, the palo verde trees around the area buzzing with the sound of bees doing their work in the still air. It's isolated out here, but not lonely; she enjoys it like she enjoys silence in a conversation.

Her trip isn't to have a chat with him, although she thinks it would be nice. Maka is fighting the attraction she feels for Soul- it's hard enough she already feels like he's her best friend. In the car, she takes a moment to write down a few thoughts. When she finishes, she takes her small envelope to the mailbox and begins the ritual: opening the lid, setting her words inside, replacing the lid, and raising the flag.

 **Soul...**

...checks the mailbox diligently after work, or he had until the summer ramped up and construction took over his life. He needs a break from choreographing subcontractors, staging construction materials, and balancing the budget. The mailbox would be the perfect reprieve- but he's cool, not needy, and silence must mean she's as busy as he is. That's what he tells himself.

He's exhausted when he gets home in the dying light of day. Orange streaks the sky, the woods around the lake already an inky, black-blue hue. Halfway across the gangway, he realizes he's forgotten to check the mail, the twilight glow illuminating the flag.

She's written!

One of the beautiful things about living at the lake house is that no one is around to see him run like an idiot to the box that announces the words of a person who he's crushing on like a middle school child. He forces himself to stand less slouchy as he opens the box and removes the envelope. There's not a chance he can read it in the gloom, so he walks back to the house, placing the letter on the piano.

If one flag is enough to reduce him to uncool mess, he is going to make up for it by reading it after he showers and finds something to eat. It's easier said than done. In the shower, it's hard to curb his curious thought process. Has she missed him at all? Whether by Pavlov's conditioning or by thinking about her, he decides to kill the hot water in an effort to kill the boner.

It becomes apparent that his problem is staying. What does this mean? This is the first meaningful relationship he's developed, and by relationship he really means friendship because all feelings are on his side of the mailbox, he's sure of it. So, automatically that translates to his dick responding to thoughts of her, even if they're along the lines of does she miss him? That isn't fair to her. He's got to get this shit under control.

Music starts playing from the living room. It's Debussy: his mother's record. The turntable is on a timed connection, mostly so the place isn't as quiet when he gets home late. This is the problem, really; he inherited all of his mother's romantic nature and not enough of his father's blind drive. Is this the reason he sees architecture as a living, resonating composition and not the way his father sees it physical, monumental achievements of the will?

Feelings are held at bay momentarily while he makes his dinner. Even with the task at hand, he's curious- what does she eat? Does she like sushi? God forbid she like mushrooms; he does his best not to gag at the thought. But, what if she did like mushrooms? They're gross, but it wouldn't change the fact he likes writing to her. One smoked salmon omelette later, he cleans up his kitchen, finally giving in to his incessant curiosity and moving to the living room.

Her small letter sits on the music rack of the piano, his name in her musical print. His fingers tingle as he carefully tears a side of the envelope to extract her words.

Hello Soul,

I'm so sorry I haven't written to you in some time. I haven't had time to come to the Lake House. I just worked a 30 hour shift, Dr. Stein sent me home. It's funny, when I stop to think about it, how isolated I've let myself become. You're my best-friend Soul-

The small stab of pain he feels is stupid. If that's what he is, then damnit, he's going to be the best friend that he can be. He can at least do that much from this side of a fucking mailbox.

-Blair keeps me company, but I feel like I'm going to end up some sad cat lady. I'm rambling. How pathetic. I've been thinking a lot about the walk you took me on, you opened my eyes to the beauty of Death City. I can't help it though, I miss the Lake House. More than I thought I would. I miss the palo verde trees, and the sound of the wind through their branches.

The page is puckered in two small spots, one with ink smeared. Was she crying? Soul can't help but feel that she tried to wipe up some emotion, her note ends with that. She didn't sign her name.

Soul taps the letter on the fallboard as he leans on the music shelf of the baby grand. As he is thinking, Blair walks past on her way to the kitchen.

"You'd better be taking good care of her," he mutters. She stops and sits on her haunches. They stare at one another. The record stops, and the moment is broken.

…

The idea of the trees keeps going around his mind like a song on repeat. As with the walk, it's something he wants to do for her. Finish grading is being completed on two of his properties later this week. And she's missing the trees...

"Soul!" Impatient, impeccably polished nails snap in front of his eyes as Liz glares at him. "Hello?! Are you with me?"

He clears his throat. "Yeah."

Clearly she's still angry because she's heavy on the snark, "Uh huh, sure. Emilio from Nee Nights Landscaping is here, going on about some shrubs he has to stage since the grading isn't complete."

"Shrubs?" The wheels are turning slowly.

"Uh-ya, look he's waiting outside the office." Liz examines a blemish-free nail.

Wanting peace to return, Soul mumbles an apology before exiting the job trailer, which Liz acknowledges by rapping her nails on her clipboard and returning to her small desk. If the softening of her resting bitch face is any indication, she'll forgive him- he thinks.

Outside, the job foreman from the landscaping company is wiping a bandana across his brow. "Emilio," Soul says by way of announcing his presence.

"Ah, Señor Evans," the man greets, shaking Soul's outstretched hand. "I was in the area, came to check on the progress. We're still on for Friday's installation, yeah?"

They've walked out to the truck, Emilio leaning against the truck bed, and both men watch the grading across the street on lots 12 and 13.

"We are," Soul replies. He's eyeing the tree in the bed of Emilio's truck. "Are you delivering the order already?" Emilio is observing him so Soul indicates the tree.

"Ah, no. This was excess from a project we completed. We'll pull your order very early on Friday. A crew will be here prepping the site while we load up, and we should have everything in the ground before the sun rises."

Soul nods, "What are you doing with this one, then?"

"You want it?" Emilio asks. "I have no problem losing a tree. If you want it, it's yours."

Soul is laughing as he pulls out his wallet, "I wouldn't ask you to do that." Forty is all the cash he has on hand, he holds out the two bills. "Here, is that enough?"

The tailgate is down, and Emilio pulls out the tree, carefully setting it in the shade. "Keep your money, _Sol._ Whatchu gonna do with it anyway?"

"I'm going to give it to a friend," he responds.

"Woman friend?" Emilio wonders aloud.

Soul feels a bit defensive when he says, "Why you asking?"

The foreman shrugs, "No reason, maybe curious, as _palo verde_ isn't exactly what I'd get a girl I was trying to impress."

"Yeah, well, I'm not trying to impress anyone." He's doubting his idea now.

Ten minutes later, Emilio is gone, and Soul is the new owner of a homeless tree. Inside the trailer, it's back to business as usual. Liz is texting her sister Patty, which isn't a problem since Liz gets her work done in a timely, professional manner.

"So...what are you doing with the tree?"

Soul closes his eyes. Can't a guy buy a fucking tree without it dredging up a million questions? He gives her a calculated stare, and says, "Planting it. What else would I do?"

"Woah, defensive much?" Liz's face splits into a shit-eating grin. Soul contemplates leaving her presence immediately, but she's quick to the punch. "I'm curious Soul, how exactly do you plan on getting it anywhere on your motorcycle?"

 _Fuck!_

"Or do you have a tiny trailer you use for these kinds of things?" Her laughter trails him out of the building, soon to be drowned out by the sound of the twin engines revving as he storms out of the job site.

...

By the time he returns in his old truck, the job site is barren. It's "five o'clock somewhere" on a Wednesday, and he'll give them shit for it tomorrow. Huffing and straining, he finally shuts the tailgate behind the medium sized, heavy as fuck root ball of the small _palo verde._

As he makes his way to Black Cat Drive, the skies open up, water dumping onto the dry desert land like a cow pissing on a flat rock. And just as quickly it stops. He pulls to the side of the street in front of the sign where the entrance has been framed but the building exterior finish hasn't been completed yet.

He just knows someone is going to destroy it before she sees it. It might not even exist in her time, she's here- no there- it's so crazy. Best not think about it. The humidity rises like the undead to choke the air with hot moisture, and he's dripping with sweat before the hole is complete. After another half hour, in which he wrangles the tree into the hole, he decides he's reached his exertion quota for the rest of the foreseeable future.

He throws the shovel back into the bed of the truck...will she know he did it for her? If just for a moment, to ease that pang she feels when she's not at the lake house.

…

Saturday mornings are a sacred time. No one should visit or be allowed out of their own homes before noon. This, of course, is Soul's opinion, and Wes doesn't share it. He never has. So it's with some level of martyrdom that Soul hauls himself out of bed at 8am when Wes won't stop knocking, and starts texting his phone.

Rolling off of his comfortable bed, he zombies his way to the front door ready to face the world with nothing but resting bitch face.

"The fuck you doing here Wes?" Soul wants to glare, but he's too tired to work those muscles. Wes saunters in like he owns the place.

"You can't tell me you bought the lake house, and then not show me around?" His older brother is poking his nose in every room, hesitating before Soul's bedroom. "Wait, I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" he asks, thumb hitched in the direction of the door.

"Yeah, you were- my sleep, ass-hole," he responds, idly scratching at his shoulder blade. Without permission, his eyes wander to the mailbox. No flag. He doesn't know what happened with the tree.

Wes follows the look. "Are you waiting for someone?"

In a manner of speaking- "No," he grunts.

His brother and his damnable intuition. "Mom would be proud, you know."

"About?"

"How clean you keep it," he indicates, arms waving around the place.

Soul nods. Death-damnit, if he's going to be vertical at this hour, he's going to need a substantial dose of caffeine. "What, you remember from when you were a kid?" He has precious few memories at the time.

"Well... I was eight. You weren't born yet when he built the house." Wes looks far away. "Mom always said you were the first new thing to be brought here."

Soul scoffs. Bet ol' Pops didn't like that much, _Mother_ sidelining his masterpiece for a child.

"She really did try hard to make it work, Soul. For you, for me, and for _him_."

It's not that he doesn't believe Wes, he does. He just don't understand how his father could let his achievements come before his family. Were they just bullet points to be checked off his list? He's pulling the coffee beans from the cupboard, hiding behind the mundane task of meal prep. If Wes insists on emotional torture before 9am, he might as well face it on a full stomach.

From behind him he hears Wes exhale a sigh, "God, I'd forgotten the views out here. It's so beautiful."

"Yeah, that's Dad. Always keeping beauty at arm's length." The tone is bitter.

"How so?"

Soul, having added the water, turns on the machine, then faces his brother. "You've got the views, right? But you can't interact with any of it. No decks, nothing. It's locked away."

Wes stretches as he looks around, "Okay. But then what about Mom's tree?"

Ah, the tree. A funny thing about the lake house, when it was under construction Eva stopped the contractor from removing a small sapling in the building footprint. She asked Elliott to give her the tree. 'Isn't there a way to save it?' she'd asked. He consulted his plans- he had allowed for an interior courtyard in his design, one, that would be filled with planters, so he modified it. Elliott submitted the amendments to the proper authorities, and the house was built around the tree. He added the addition of a retractable roof, to "protect" the tree, but as Soul grew older he came to understand that the roof was another iteration of his father's power and dominance over the tree that was saved.

"What about the tree? It's enclosed- dwarfed because of its confinement." For emphasis, he hits the opener for retract the roof. "See, controlled. Disconnected. Cut off."

His brother stares at the confined tree, a pained look in his eye. "Oh, I never looked at it that way."

It's not something Soul likes to dwell on, so he grabs two mugs and pours his brother a cup. They sit in silence, minutes ticking by.

"Fine, screw him, when are going to get Resonance Design underway then?"

Unaccustomed to emotional outbursts from his brother, Soul shrugs, palm rubbing the stiffness from his neck. "I dunno, Wes." Ever since the mailbox, he thinks differently. For the first time he's pondering a different future all together, and he doesn't want to commit to Resonance Design before he knows what will happen. What could happen.

"What?" Wes turns a sharp eye to his younger brother. "Seriously, what's going on? You have a girlfriend?"

He'll never understand how Wes picks up on things he's sure he isn't broadcasting. Does he have a girl who is his friend? Yes. Is it in the way Wes assumes? ...No, no it's not.

"Ahh- fuck." Does he really want to tell his brother? On the one hand, no. On the other, it would be nice to share half this weird-cosmic-wormhole madness. "You're going to think I'm nuts."

 **Maka**

The tree spang up Saturday late at night. Maka stares at it every time she leaves her building. It wasn't there Friday, and she's been puzzling over it all week. She knows who planted it. She doesn't understand _why_. Why is he doing this for her? Why is she so drawn to him?

Seeing the tree almost felt like getting a hug she didn't realize she needed. This time of year is hard for her. Tomorrow is Mama's birthday, and it's also the day she lost the last thing Mama had given her. A copy of _Persuasion…_ she'd forgotten it at the train station...

There is a tug at her memory; she had told someone about that story once. Was it Kid? They were dating at the time, but no? It was someone she met only briefly. Oh. Oh. Oh. Her heart races at the thought. It can't be though. Wouldn't he have said something?

Wanting to test a theory, she grabs her stationery and pens a note to Soul, all the while checking back and forth, the 2014 and 2016 calendars. Time is trippy this way, but it's there on the calendar; she took the train that Sunday on her Mama's birthday, and forgot her book… Well, she rationalizes, if it doesn't work, then it wasn't him.

* * *

After they eat breakfast, Wes spends most of the morning at the lake house. When his big brother finally announces that he should be getting back to the city, Soul walks him back to his car.

Wes eyes the mailbox carefully, and turns to Soul. "You know, I hope things work out."

He doesn't have words left on the subject, the situation is what it is. He shrugs more out of habit than response.

Wes nods, getting into his car, and after a few minutes is lost from view, due to the trees. Something his brother commented on is bouncing around his head.

'But she's here, _now._ ' _And what of it,_ Soul had countered. He had no right to go searching her out- she doesn't remember him. 'Oh, fuck, hadn't thought about that.' No, of course not, Wes isn't known for thinking that way. Hell, the only reason Soul had, was because, he too, hadn't thought about it- _the walk._ He'd never betray her trust that way. His wasted heart knows he'd do anything she asks of him.

As he's walking back to the house, he hears the flag clicking into place. With the grace of Cat scrambling for a treat, he clambers to the box to pull out her letter. He takes a moment to regain his dignity before opening the envelope.

My dearest Mr. Evans,

He tries to tamp down the speed of his heart, reminding himself that plenty of people are just as pleasant when writing _actual_ letters.

Thank you for the beautiful tree, the blossoms are such bright yellow that it makes it impossible to feel down, even this time of year.

Up until now, he'd taken it for granted that she too might have times during the year when she felt down.

I wanted to ask you if you would...be interested in testing a theory?

He's curious- what could she possibly request of him?

You see, two years ago on the 21st, I was taking the 1:45 train from Death City to Boulder, from the Lazarus station. I lost something, it was a gift from my mother. If you find it, would you please, please put it in the mailbox for me? I would be ever so grateful.

Yours in time,

Maka

Her signature does nothing to ease the pulse hammering in his ears. He understands her to mean _yours in time_ like someone says _yours truly,_ but, the double meaning isn't lost on him. It's a chance to see her, though she won't know it's him. A chance for a future- but now he's getting ahead of himself. Feelings, why the fuck did he have to develop feelings.


	3. Part 3

**Soul**

For the second day in a row, Soul wakes up early. Unlike the day before, this is because he's filled with nervous energy. He showers and dresses carefully: dark blue jeans, white button down, and his motorcycle boots. Does his best to go about his day as normal as possible.

He then realizes he's going to be late if he doesn't get a move on.

The roar of the bike's twin engines soothes his anxiety, the countryside passing in a blur. A thought keeps playing through his mind- will he know it's her when he sees her?

Finally he parks outside the small station and checks his watch: it's 1:40. In the distance he hears the last call for boarding. Passengers are boarding the train when he makes it to the platform, unsure of what he's searching for.

She must have already boarded, he thinks, scanning the immediate area when hears a bright laugh.

There is a couple near the only bench on the platform. A young man with black hair and serious demeanor has his arms around the waist of a young woman. He's drawn to her, her wheat-blonde hair shining golden in the afternoon light, tied up in twin tails.

His heart is in his chest as her friend leans in. He looks away. His gut feels like he's been punched; she hadn't mentioned a boyfriend, she said she's single! When it clicks, he feels like a fool. This is Maka in his present while he's only met her in her future.

One thing is for sure, he doesn't stand a chance- he is the opposite archetype of the person who waves her off. The man is pale, with jet black hair streaked with white, stoic of expression, and wearing a three piece suit. He's probably a lawyer to her doctor nerdiness. Forget him, though, it's her that captivates him.

She's wearing a leather jacket and a tiny skirt. Her hair catches the light as she grabs her bags, and runs for the train door on impossibly long legs. But, he's not here for visual gratification, she asked him to come because she forgot something important to her. She has trusted him with this. He tamps down the mess of his heart in his chest, his mind cataloging her every detail.

On the bench he spies a book. Takes five steps, picks it up: _Persuasion_ by Jane Austen. He thinks, what if he can just get it to her? Turns, and just catches a glimpse of her sitting in a window seat facing the platform. He's witness to her looking up with a pained expression.

It cuts him, because he's locked eyes with her. Golden fringe framing a delicate face, and eyes, those eyes will haunt him for the rest of his existence. He can't think of that now, so he holds up the book, a silent promise. The train is moving faster now, and he's running. It's futile, he knows he won't catch up, but he can't bear to let go of the forest green that has ensnared him through time.

Driving back to the lake house is a new form of torture, now that he's seen her. Why hadn't she told him she is beautiful? Ponders this as he makes it back home. The one comforting thought is he can communicate with her now.

* * *

Maka sits in the large empty break room on the seventh floor. It has the best view.

On the table before her is Soul's letter. She's read it more times than she'd like to admit by this point.

So...he _was_ the stranger she saw at the train station long ago. Why- why hadn't she known? Her memory is fuzzy at best. He had refused to break eye contact, but then the moment passed and life went on. Realizing it now hurts.

Sitting at the table, she takes a deep breath. It was meant to be this way. She tells herself this as she reads the letter again.

Maka,

I have your book. I want to return it to you someday, in my own way- if that's cool.

You may not remember this, but we saw each other that day at the train station- At least, I saw you. I was afraid I wouldn't recognize you, but when I saw your eyes- I've never seen such green eyes.

Soul

Presently, Maka is trying to parse through her feelings and they boil down to longing and frustration- at herself for not remembering clearly. She has no idea what he looks like, his eyes were shadowed, and the rest is fuzzy memory, maybe pants, maybe a t-shirt or button down? She has nothing.

Her heart constricts; against her better judgement, she wants to meet him. Would a date be too formal? They're basically pen pals, and she's never harbored these types of feelings for someone she's only corresponded with. There is a coiling in her tummy she's only experienced once before. It would be too much to ask of fate- that Soul be that other person…

Maka lets out the breath she's holding forcefully through her nose. Picks up her pen and begins her letter.

Writing is hard, she decides as she checks her watch with the intention of giving him a specific date to call her. As she turns to write it down, her phone starts ringing.

She startles because _how_ is this possible? She stares at the phone trying to calm her racing heart, and after one more ring, she answers.

"Hello?" Maka asks, voice breathy with anticipation.

"Maka," the sound is mildly grating and familiar. "It's Mortimer."

Maka closes her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. She had known it was too good to be true. "Hello, Kid," she says, trying her best not to let disappointment color her tone.

"I'm in town," he says, oblivious of her deflating enthusiasm. "It'd be great to catch up, want to meet for dinner?"

She doesn't, not particularly, but because at times she's too kind for her own good, she agrees to meet him at the Green Mile shopping district. For old time's sake.

…

Walking with Kid is both strange and familiar, Maka can't decide which. So much has changed since they were together, but she gets swept up in the conversation. At least she thinks she does.

"Maka."

She blinks, not exactly remembering the last thing he said. "Um, yes?"

Kid gives her an odd look for a moment, before brushing it off. "I was just saying, are you hungry?" And without waiting for her answer, he looks up and says, "Ah, here. This will do nicely."

Maka is gripped by the elbow and led to a storefront. _Il Morte_ is one of the best restaurants on the Green Mile, and Maka looks down horrified as they are, by society standards, underdressed. At least she is; Kid's version of dressing down is a pair of slacks, pressed button-down, and vest- presently he's wearing a suit. She is wearing _scrubs_. She makes a feeble protest, but in true Kid style, he's already in.

The maitre d' has shocking bubble-gum pink hair- the only bright color around, aside from her vivid green eyes. The warmth and happiness of the colors are at odds with the elitist disdain her facial features are set to. "Yes?" The word is ice.

Kid, unfazed by the cold reception, continues. "Yes, we would like a table."

Maka, normally at ease in social situations, is feeling strong second-hand embarrassment at the predicament. Tugs at his sleeve, but he brushes her off.

Acid green eyes watch the situation with the amusement of a lioness before she devours a gazelle, she says, "Name?"

When Kid cocks his head to the side, the woman continues. "Do you have a reservation?"

"Ah- no," he responds, leveling her with his own stare. "Can we put our name on the list? How long is the wait."

Maka watches the woman, whose name tag reads _Kimberly_ , looking affronted to be working with such simpletons. "The wait?" Her polite tone is feigned. "We're booked through October. Shall I write your name down?" Eyebrows arched haughtily, because she knows the answer.

"Ah, no, thank you." With an awkward shuffle, Kid exits and Maka follows, breathing a sigh of relief out in the brisk September air.

"Well, that didn't go as I'd hoped," she hears him mutter.

"And how _were_ you hoping it'd go?" she asks as she approaches him.

He's indecisive, and Maka wonders if he's counting the shops behind her, to make sure the numbers are symmetrical. Takes a deep breath and focuses on Maka. "Better, I suppose."

They share a laugh, and then he asks it. "What happened to us?"

The laughter dies on her face; she shakes her head, trying to recover from the whiplash. "Ah- Kid." She sounds like a deflating balloon. "You had it all planned. Our entire life mapped out in less than a few months. It," she pauses, but continues honestly, "was too much."

Kid looks upset. "That's not how I remember it."

Taking a deep breath, Maka asks him how he remembers it.

"Your birthday party," he says simply.

The birthday party he had planned on the weekend- the only time she had to spend with him. The party she had specifically requested he _not_ throw. She was driving to his place, and studying for boards while she was there. Green eyes blinking rapidly, she asks, "What about my birthday party?"

"That guy." His face still bears the hurt. She stays quiet to let him finish. "The one you made out with."

There... had been a guy, and her pulse speeds up just a little remembering. "Made out- Kid? What are we in high school?" She doesn't want to dismiss his feelings, but it was nothing close to the displays of impassioned affection she would define as 'making out.' She didn't remember it that way at all…

"Then what would you call it, Maka? I came out to see that guy with his hands all over you." He's getting visibly upset.

And she's had enough. She's not going to let him shame her over something that had happened so quickly- it was...hard to describe, and like nothing she'd ever experienced before...ardent desire like that, but that had been it. An uncharacteristic mistake. The man had disappeared after. "Kid, I am sorry I hurt you. It was- a kiss- it happened years ago."

...

At home, the kiss is still on her mind. Given her upbringing, she hated, _hated_ knowing she had cheated on Kid.

It had happened so suddenly. Maka was physically exhausted from her residency and studying for boards. Then coming home to a housefull of strangers- why? Because it made the number of people in attendance symmetrical! It was overwhelming. This guy had shown up at her party. She had spoken with him briefly on her back porch, they danced and... shared a kiss. And, like Cinderella, she had turned back into a pumpkin at midnight.

The breath she'd been holding comes out in a whoosh of shame and defeat. It was best not to think about it.

 **Soul**

Blair is yowling from the cab of the old truck. Guilt finally won out, and he'd asked Liz to make an appointment with a nearby vet.

Liz smiles from her desk, where she's completing cost reports. So far everything is on schedule; the first residence is set for completion at the end of the month. There has been growing interest in the development. They have four houses under contract.

"You'd better go, you're cutting it close as it is." She waves him out the door. "And please say hi to Patty from me, okay?"

...

Ten minutes later he and Blair arrive at Nygus Family Veterinary. All in all the visit goes well. Blair seems to take all the poking and prodding from the blue eyed kind doctor in stride as she paws at a long loc. Dr. Nygus praises Soul for her great care routine.

At the front counter, he's greeted by a happy go lucky blue-eyed blond, who is finalizing the charges, accepting his card to run it. And then it happens. Just as he's signing the bill, the door opens- and Blair makes a run for it.

He has the wherewithal to grab his card quickly from the laughing receptionist, who has apparently seen enough pets fleeing their owners that she has the process down to a science. He's out the door before Blair turns the corner in a mad dash for the park located behind the facility. And he belatedly realizes it was Liz's sister Patty.

"Blair, _goddamnit_ , I don't have time for this!" he yells, running after his cat. Cat- this is dog behaviour, cats should be sleeping in the sun. Not this shit!

Soul can feel his body screaming at him in anger- he's fit, he's just not cat marathon fit. There's the beginning stitch of pain in his side. Internally he's yelling, he's too old for this shit.

Five minutes later and he is still running. Can't say if she's doing it on purpose, but Blair seems to have paced herself slow enough so as to not kill him, but also fast enough to elude capture. Soul's so angry, but all he can do is focus. She turns another block and he loses sight of her for a moment.

When he turns the corner he's surprised to see her in the arms of a man.

"Yours, I presume?" the stranger asks, while petting her head. Blair, for her part, purrs as if she hasn't made her housemate run ten minutes after her.

It takes a moment for him to breathe, "Yeah."

The stranger turns back to Blair, scratching under her chin. "You're cute. I bet she'd love to have a kitty like you."

""Scuse me?" Soul asks, bewildered.

"Ah, sorry, I'm Mortimer Thorne the Third, Kid if you prefer." He holds out a hand, and Soul gets the distinct impression the man wishes he hadn't. He's been running all puffed out, so he wipes his hand on his khakis before taking the proffered handshake.

"I'm Soul," and because he's never been great at social interactions adds, "I'm the developer in the subdivision off Hallows Drive."

"Oh, we've been looking for a place, maybe outside the city though," says Kid, who hasn't relinquished his hold on Blair. "Do you live there?"

"Ah, no," Soul responds, and later he wonderes if he imagined it, but Blair gives him such an imploring look that he adds. "I have a place on the lake."

Kid's eyes get big, "You don't say. Maka's never really liked this place. I promised her I'd look for something."

It's a knife twist to his gut. Maka, what are the chances? And then he remembers a few days ago. The man before him is dressed in slacks and a plain black button down, but it's the same man. Soul can feel his throat going dry. "Maka?"

"Yeah, she's in a residency at Boulder City, wanted something more centrally located, and the lake is it," he responds, oblivious to the landslide he's just dumped on Soul. "She still has another year."

"Uh- yeah, I'd be happy to keep you in mind," Soul stammers, not sure if that is the correct response.

"Great!" Kid extends his hand out for a second time.

It's about this time that Blair jumps out of his arms, leaving cat hair behind, wearing a cheshire grin. Soul is ready to pounce, but she beats him, jumping into the open trunk of Kid's sedan. It's almost as if it's a signal. "Soul, you wouldn't mind helping me for a minute?" Kid says, indicating the cases of beer in the trunk.

Soul looks at the trunk, and back at the man. "No. Uh-?"

"Oh, I'm not drinking it all myself." This is met with another blank stare. "It's for Maka's birthday tomorrow, here."

 _Maka's birthday._

"You should come, bring a friend or whatever," he adds. "Show up around seven thirty, it's a surprise."

 _Maka's birthday!_

"Uh- cool. Yeah."

Soul marvels at the ease of this complete stranger, who dropped this golden egg of an opportunity in his lap. He's never been comfortable spending time with a lot of people, let alone being extroverted enough to invite complete strangers over on a whim. But...he isn't going look a gift horse in the mouth. So he makes a note of the address.

…

On the drive back to the office, he decides to mention the party to Liz, who is outgoing enough to be a social buffer for him without prying too much. He didn't count on her curiosity, so he tries to give a brief run down of the events.

"And bring along your sister," he adds.

"Really? You don't think the guy will mind?" She's hesitant, but he can tell she's happy about including Patty.

Soul nods. "He doesn't seem the type to mind." He even offers to drive them there, carefully reiterating this is a just-as-friends thing.

Liz doesn't mind; she's clearly excited at the prospect of widening her social circle and making new friends. Soul wishes he could feel so carefree, but he's honestly trying not to panic.

With the particulars settled, he finishes work and heads home early.

…

Soul wakes uncharacteristically early (10am). He's seriously trying not to think of it because everytime he does his leg starts shaking uncontrollably. He's torn about writing to Maka about it and decides against it. This has no bearing on the future.

If it did, wouldn't she have mentioned it? Unless- no, no unless. He can't think _unless_ because it just strains his mental capacities. This is completely unknown territory for him, but knows he wants it to be special.

Should he return the book?!

Gah! He's so bad at this no-because-it-hasn't-happened-in-the-future-yet crap. The book gets set back down on the piano. He runs his hands through his hair.

In order to pass the time, he sets to work tuning the motorcycle. It works, because when he finally looks up it's after six-thirty. Ends up rushing to shower, get dressed, and pick up the girls, only to arrive at Kid's house by twenty after seven.

Kid proves to be a generous host, greeting everyone. Soul gladly accepts a beer, more to have something to keep his hands occupied since he's too nervous to drink. He in turn introduces Liz and Patty to Kid, who both who seem to hit it off well with the host.

There is only one thing on Soul's mind, seeing _her._

At ten till, Kid kills the lights. The air in the room is tense with excitement, or Soul is projecting his own nervousness. He decides to forgo modesty and stands slightly behind Kid. For completely selfish reasons, he needs to see her.

Maka enters the house at eight on the dot. When she turns on the lights, the room yells, "Surprise!" with gusto. Her face falls for a moment, and then she smiles.

Soul experiences that punch to the gut as Kid kisses _his_ girlfriend's cheek.

"Ah," she says. "Kid-" the rest is too soft to be heard over the noise of the party.

His first thought is she didn't want this party, and his heart goes out to her, but there's nothing he can do about it. He's turning around when he hears Kid.

"Maka," her name in Kid's voice is a special kind of torture Soul didn't know existed before now. "This is Soul. He's the architect I told you about- the one who's going to help us find a lake house."

His heart feels uncomfortable in his chest as he turns, her green eyes burning through him. "Hey."

She looks at him quizzically. He briefly wonders if she somehow knows it's him, and then she smiles. "Nice to meet you." The smile is strained as she turns back to Kid, who is oblivious introducing her to Liz and Patty.

And that's it. He loses her to the crowd.

* * *

Maka is sitting at a small table at the local Deathbucks, presently ignoring a stream of text messages from her papa. Honestly, it isn't kind ignoring Spirit on her birthday, but it is her birthday. If she wants to spend it alone with her pumpkin spice latte and a cake pop, why shouldn't she?

It's another day, like every other year.

She's been thinking about so many things since she saw Kid. Why would she push away the one guy who was standing ready to marry her? Her heart feels tight in her chest. It's because she knows he isn't what she wants.

Allows herself to think of him, to think of _Soul_. Wonders why she feels like she wants to give her heart to him. They've never met.

A barista walks around cleaning up tables and sending furtive glances her way, unwilling to confront her about the impending closing time.

Is what she's feeling for Soul even real? Or is it the safe option? It's her Maka default, keeping everything at a distance- everyone. Especially Soul... the architect who lives on the lake…

And slowly, oh so slowly, does a piece of her unknown puzzle fall into place.

"Oh my Death," Maka exhales, shaky fingers coming up to her mouth.

* * *

Soul is sitting on the front porch of Kid's house wondering what the hell he's doing exactly. Torn between wanting to run far away- she's in a relationship- and staying because he's a glutton for punishment. He's in the middle of his moral dilemma when the front door bursts open. Startled, it takes everything he's got not to cry out in surprise.

Chancing a quick glance over his shoulder, he nearly chokes on his heart- it's her.

Maka stands next to the front door, clearly none too thrilled that she isn't alone as she clearly was hoping to be. After a moment her boots stomp to the far side of the porch, where she sits with a huff.

All systems are on red alert for Soul: his mouth is dry, heart is racing, and there is a ringing in his ears. Fuck it all, he's cooler than this. "Happy birthday," he offers.

She exhales a forced, "Thank you."

Soul is fluent in _leave me alone._ But he _can't_. He gets up slowly, crossing to where she's sitting. Her hair is half up, half down. It looks nice, though he realizes he was half expecting/hoping it to be in twin tails.

He breathes in, then asks, "May I?" Before he can lose his nerve. It feels like an eternity before she nods her head, and he slowly walks down a step, then another, before sitting a careful distance from her. The need to be close to her is hard to suppress, but he manages.

"Not the evening you envisioned, I take it?" He empathizes with her situation.

A small smile spreads on her features, "That obvious, huh?"

Soul chuckles. "I know it's a personal question, but what would you be doing- uh- if there wasn't a party going on?"

He tries not to watch too closely as she breathes in and exhales arching her shoulders, "Studying," before deflating.

There is nothing intelligent to say to this.

"Boring, I know…" Green eyes look at him expectantly from where her head rests on her knees.

"Soul," he reminds her, "Ah, the lake house guy."

Her hair is spun gold from the streetlight. "So, you're going to help us find a place on the lake?"

"I hope so. Yeah," he says, completely aware that his heart is still going a hundred miles an hour.

"What are you a real estate agent?" she asks.

She's tough, he thinks as he runs a hand through his hair. "Uh, no. I just own a lake house."

Maka rolls up so she can put a hand on her chin. She exhales a forceful sigh through her nose. "Is it symmetrical?"

"Huh?" He's caught off guard, but recovers. "Ah, not exactly. Why?"

There's a soft giggle, an inside joke only she knows the punchline to. "Is it nice?"

Something about her laughter makes him feel reckless. "Yeah. You're going to love it. In fact, you're going to rent it after I move out."

She turns green eyes on him, and he feels a thrill down his spine. "Really?" Soul breathes evenly and after a few moments she breaks the eye contact.

Don't scare her, _don't scare_ her, is the litany running through his head. Fuck, why is this so hard? It's out of his mouth before he realizes he's going there. "Maka," _Shit- fuck_ , he has no other choice but to continue, swallows his nervousness soldiering on. "Have you, uh, ever read _Persuasion?_ " Manages not to wheeze it out.

Her face is guarded.

"Uh, by Jane Aust-" he starts to say.

"I know who it's by," she interrupts. "W-why would you ask that?"

She's sharp as a tack. He's an idiot so he scrambles to make up for his question from left-field. "Ah, a friend of mine," He's thinking of her, and the rest finally flows out a bit more naturally, "gave it to me recently."

She scoffs quietly, most likely seeing through his thin cover. "What, did you lose a bet?" A smile colors her tone.

"No, no I didn't." He hopes his face isn't plastered with a goofy smile. "Wanna give me the cliffnotes version?"

"Do you not have Google at the lake house?" she teases, her laughter intoxicating.

"Yes," he's miffed at the light hearted roasting, can feel a blush burning his ears. "I just, sorta, wanted to hear your take on it, you strike me as the nerdy type."

Her mouth opens in an 'oh' of protest, and he's trying so hard not to stare. Watches as she takes a deep breath, "Wellll, ah," her face transforms, "It's one of my favorite books. It's about- it's about, waiting."

He is taking in the details of her face- full lips, a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the color of her eyes as she's lost in memory- sure that this moment is going to follow him the rest of his life.

"Two people meet, they almost fall in love. The timing is wrong, and they have to part, only to meet each other later in life. They get a second chance. But, they don't know if too much time has gone by, if it's too late to make it work."

The back of Soul's neck tingles at the eerie parallel.

"Why do you like that?"

It isn't until she responds, "I don't know," that Soul realizes he's asked it outloud.

"Well...it's, uh, it's beauti-"

"No, it's awful," she interrupts.

"It is," he agrees as she laughs, her face radiant, and he realizes he feels good in her company. Knows it can't last. "Have you- have you experienced something like that?" He wants to understand why it's her favorite. Can't help but think of his present predicament.

"Ah," she falters. "No, no I haven't." Her voice is lilting. She gets a far off look in her eyes as she says softly. "I thought I was in love once."

His, "Oh," is involuntary. Is she suggesting she isn't in love presently?

"Yep, I was sixteen. I ran away with him to California." Maka looks down with forced sigh. "My dad showed up a week later and brought me back to Death City."

Soul can't think of anything to contribute to this except for, "Ah."

"He's with a pretty amazing woman now." Statement, with no emotion.

Maka breaks the moment by getting up, walking across the grass to a brick patio at the side of the house. Soul follows, unsure of everything except the need to be close.

Music is drifting from the open windows, sounds of the party drifting out. Not knowing what else to do, Soul blurts, "Do you sing?"

She turns to face him, her expression guarded; he realizes she must not have wanted him to follow her. It's too late for him. At the moment he decides to turn around, she says, "No, I don't. Trust me, no one wants to hear me sing."

He nods, hands shoved deep in his pockets, trying to keep any grasp on this crazy situation.

"But, I can dance," she says it quietly.

Her small frame starts swaying from side to side. Green eyes watch him, his body moves of its own accord, she draws him in. She is gravity, and he's past the point of saving himself.

The song is slow, so she wraps her arms around his neck. His hands instinctively wrap around her waist. "Is this okay?" he whispers, voice low, husky. If there is music, he's gone deaf to it; nothing exists in his reality but this woman.

She tickles his chin with her wheat-gold hair when she nods, and he presses his lips together. _She smells so good_. If he's to be tortured by this moment, he might as well remember every detail.

It's as if she can feel his gaze because she looks up, green eyes meeting his, and he's pulled in even further. Their foreheads rest lightly against one another. Subconsciously or maybe consciously he holds her more firmly. Her fingers work their way into his hair, and he has to lock it down before he starts purring like a fucking cat.

Their bodies are swaying together in the courtyard, alone in the world, connected in this moment in time. And maybe this is as good as it gets- his heart can't be the same knowing she's here now. Does she feel it? How much he loves her? How he wants to tell her who he is- and realizes that he can't. The unknown doesn't work that way. And she doesn't know. It hurts that she doesn't remember him, it hurts understanding. And really, how could she?

For Maka, this was another day, her birthday, and she came home to house full of strangers.

Her face is serene, eyes closed, and even so, she still pulls him in. Their noses touch, eskimo kisses. Death, he's a piece of shit. His hands have worked their way up higher on her back where he now plays with her hair, memorizing the softness. She smells of eucalyptus, sage, and possibly pear. He remembers the scarf she gave him. It's heaven and hell for him.

There is an intensity to her touch. His arms wrap around her, hugging her to him. It's a hug, he rationalizes. Hugs are acceptable between- fuck what are they? He knows her, yet he's a stranger to her, but not in the future. He can't let go, but he has to let go. He needs to let go.

Her hands are on the back of his neck. Soul wants to hold her tight a moment longer before he lets go, but her hands are on his neck, and his are on the back of her neck and and on her waist. Her eyes are focused on his mouth, he can't look away from her, and then it happens.

Their lips meet, warm soft lips pressed chastely against his as their mouths slant together. He's holding her tightly, her hands are fisted in his hair, their heartbeats syncing and slowing, and Soul forgets to breathe, because time has stopped.

"Maa-ka?"

The world speeds up again.

Maka backs away from him slowly, his arms have already fallen to his sides as he remembers how to breathe.

Kid is looking at Maka with a mixture of shock and disbelief. Liz and Patty stand off to the side, witnesses to the scene.

"We're waiting inside for you to blow out your candles." Without further comment, Kid takes a step towards her and she ignores this. Doesn't turn to face Soul, but walks with ramrod straight back, across the grass to the front porch.

Soul watches helplessly as Kid follows her inside.

Liz clears her throat. "Soul, I think we should go."

He doesn't argue.

 **Maka**

With her head reeling from her newfound knowledge, Maka spends the next few hours debating what to do, finally deciding to drive out to the lake house. Nevermind that it's closer to eleven pm. She hasn't established if anyone lives at the lake house presently.

Soul must still own it, she realizes, however, she never had any contact with the lessor. Her payments were always mailed to an "SGE" holding company. Probably a trust or something.

Logic prevails as she drives, and by the time she reaches the mailbox, her anger at the situation has dissipated as she places her letter in the mailbox. Then she sits on the car hood to wait. The moonlight reflects off the lake. Night sounds fill the air, mixing with the sound of the water lapping at the shore. She has questions, but she can't stay long- she has a shift at the hospital in a few hours.

* * *

Soul is drained by the time he pulls into his drive, wondering when exactly his feelings for his penpal turned romantic. Also, grateful that Liz and Patty didn't pry into what they'd witnessed.

It's late as he gets out of the truck, and his exhaustion evaporates when he sees the flag.

Hey.

He wonders if he's somehow missed the entire message. Then it hits him and he scrawls back quickly.

Happy Birthday, Maka.

He waits.

It was you.

Not a question, she remembers. He nods, realizes he's an idiot, and scrawls back.

It was. You're beautiful, I'm so sorry. So many words just come tumbling out. You were in a relationship Maka- I'm sorry. I- I, it was like gravity...

All the way home, it kept spinning in his mind. She's in a relationship. He feels like the biggest sack of shit, Kid trusted him, invited him, and he- what's he do? He kisses her anyway. Knowing she's in a relationship. It just happened. He's never had any sympathy for cheaters, doesn't understand the behavior- fuck him, he made her cheat. What's that make him? The _other_ man? How must she be feeling?

Why didn't you say anything?

He re-reads her question a few times.

Wouldn't have changed anything. You would've thought I was mad.

I liked you.

Her response cuts him. Past tense. But then again, it's happened- in her time it _has_ passed. He's just now living this, and in this present she doesn't start talking to him for another sixteen months.

Maka, I only just now lived it. You're with someone, here, now, presently. I'm not giving up on this.

The words are hard to write, but it's the truth. Now that he's caught a small glimpse, he isn't going to give up. He can't. He'd have to die to give her up.

…

He hears jazz softly playing from a red and black checkered floor. When he tries to get up he finds he can't; he's frozen face down in a pool of black blood. A woman- mother- cries by his side as he falls through the surface of the lake, drowning in a pool of green.

His ringing cell phone nips any further melodramatic thoughts in the bud. Caller ID shows it's Wes. "What," he says, involuntarily shuddering as he answers.

...

The drive into the city feels like it's taking longer than it should, even with the usual traffic. Wes had been brief, his emotions making it hard to understand what had happened.

Apparently, Marianna, his father's long time maid, had come in mid morning to find Elliott unresponsive on his bathroom floor. He was then taken to Death City Regional where he was being monitored. He'd suffered a heart attack.

Soul, pulls into the visitor parking, hands sweaty at the wheel. Wes said he couldn't do hospitals, not after Mom; that leaves Soul, who isn't sure he can do hospitals either.

His heartbeat is steady as he goes in and is directed to the 5th floor. Then he's lost. This is too much.

A nurse with an eye patch approaches him. "Hello, can I help you?"

"Uh- m'father, ah Elliott Evans-"

"The architect?" A male voice cuts across the call.

A strange man approaches wearing a lab coat, and Soul can't help but notice the peculiar screw in his head. "Mr. Evans? I'm Dr. Stein, your father's attending."

"Ah," the anxiety about the space is making it difficult to articulate anything. Thankfully, the doctor continues as they walk down the hall.

"He's doing as well as can be expected. He suffered a massive heart attack."

Soul nods, a little dumbstruck by the whole situation.

Dr. Stein continues. "We've discussed surgical interventions. We have a triple bypass scheduled for tomorrow morning. If you have questions about anything, I'd be more than happy to go over any information you need."

They've stopped in front of a door Soul can only assume is his father's. "Ah, thanks." And then, the doctor is gone. The nurse smiles from the station down the hall. Soul nods and enters the room.

Inside there is the sound of pencil scratching on paper. When he looks around the corner he finds Elliott madly scribbling on vellum over the bed tray.

"Shouldn't you be taking it easy?" he asks.

"Whah?" Elliott yells. Pausing, he looks over and, seeing his second son, he returns to his mad scribbling. "You needn't have come. Everything's under control."

Of course it's not, Soul clenches his teeth. "That's not what the doc just said."

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't make mountains of mole hills. I'm fine. It's fine. It's going to be fine." Elliott is clearly agitated.

Not wishing to start an argument, and badly needing an excuse to collect his thoughts, Soul says. "If there's anything I can do…?" The question hangs lamely, between them.

"Coffee," the elder Evans says.

"What?"

"You heard me- and none of that decaf shit."

Soul exhales forcefully and exits the room. Outside the door, he unclenches his fist- he hadn't realized he had tensed so badly. His heartbeat whooshes steadily in his ringing ears. _Goddamn,_ the old man could make things so hard.

He rubs his face with a free hand, blowing his ridiculously long hair from his eyes, before setting off in the direction of the elevators.

A few floors later, and two nurses pointing the way, he makes it to the nearly empty cafeteria on the second floor.

Clearly Elliott had needed some space, because he does too. His heart is going through a lot of feelings. He wishes he could talk to someone about this. Who the fuck is he kidding, he wants to talk to Maka about it, it hurts being here in this hospital knowing she could be here too. And for that, he hates the time difference.

* * *

Maka sits in the second floor cafeteria, back in one of the cornered alcoves next to the coffee bar. It's late afternoon. She can't explain why she was drawn here, but here she is, Soul's words replaying in her mind. _I'm not giving up on this._

Why, though? Why not? It's crazy. Isn't it?

* * *

Scanning the open dining room, Soul finally spots an area that's less crowded. As luck would have it, it's next to the coffee bar. He selects a table that's more tucked away and he sits down looking at the late afternoon sun streaming in through the floor to ceiling windows.

After a minute, he digs out his pen and journal.

Maka-

Even writing her name feels like a balm to his frayed nerves. He has something important he needs to tell her.

Did I ever tell you it was my father who built the Lake House? He built it with his own hands. Drove the jobsite foreman nuts. He wanted control over his creation. Letting go of that control has always been- difficult for him.

The words are just coming now. Like the letting of a festering wound.

It was before all the architect of the year bullshit that ended up consuming him. In a time where he still only had eyes for my mother.

Mom, was brilliant, a musician. She was in love with him, gave it all up to raise Wes and me. Did it to support _him_. I don't know if he ever realized that.

It's funny, when the Lake House was completed he became this huge sensation. She stood by him. But then, well it started consuming him, like madness. I came along complicating things for him- for his vision. Eventually...she moved out. Took us kids with her.

She got sick about a year later. Died not long after, breast cancer. I'm not so sure it wasn't a combination of heartache too, she never did learn not to love him. He didn't come to the funeral.

When I was a senior, I finally worked up the courage to ask him why. Why hadn't he come?

Soul sits staring at the words on the paper, considers ripping them up and taking them to the grave. He doesn't need to burden her with this.

* * *

Maka opens her eyes carefully, not having realized she had dozed off at the table. Such a strange sensation, like she had been listening to a story. Only...there's no one around. It's one of those dejavu moments, like a word on the tip of her tongue, only to have it vanish. She wants to know how it ends. She slumps onto the table reaching out, imploring the unknown to continue. And she feels it, something...but she doesn't know what it is.

* * *

Breathing deep while staring at the pen in his hands, Soul notices the hairs on his arm raise. He fights the reflex to yank his arm back, but- it's strange, like a radio station that's catching a second frequency. This is the craziest thing that has happened to him, and thinking of the mailbox- he thought he knew what crazy was.

 _Maka?_ He wonders. He could swear- swear that there was the ghost of a hand touching his arm. Like a gentle urge to continue.

So, he does. His heart is beating rapidly in his chest, sweaty hands have returned in full force.

He- he said to me "She was dead to me the moment she walked out of the house."

His arms are covered in goosebumps. And, this is it. This is the pain he has held in his heart for twelve years, anger at his father for selfishly loving himself more than he had loved anyone else. Soul hates this, and- deep down it kills him because, because he also loves his father. He never told Wes. It would have destroyed his brother, who is so much like Eva.

The pressure lifts from his arm, coolness flooding the area at the sudden loss of the strange heat. Soul leans back in the chair, palms pressed to his eyes to contain the sudden rush of emotion.

* * *

Her hand feels tingly. Maka stares at the table, at the chair beside her. Before the mailbox, before the tree, she wouldn't consider wasting her time in thinking about ghosts. So why start now?

Only she doesn't think this is a ghost. _Soul?_ Could he really be here?

Her brain starts going a million miles an hour. She blinks green eyes rapidly, wondering where the afternoon went. She had come to the cafeteria on a whim after her shift. Felt drawn here. Now, it is rapidly getting dark outside. Checking her phone she realizes it's almost five thirty. Two hours had gone by.

Why would Soul be at the hospital?

Shit! She realizes records are closed for the evening. Her fists slam into the table; she has a bad feeling.

By the time she makes it home, she still hasn't shaken the feeling something is going to happen.

* * *

After a few deep breaths Soul collects himself, grabs a tall Americano, and heads back to Elliott's room. Carefully avoids the watchful eye of the blond nurse from earlier.

Elliott looks up when he enters the room.

"Got your coffee," Soul offers, setting the cup down in front of his father.

"Is it decaf?" the elder Evans asks.

"No," says Soul. He refrains from saying, it's black, like your soul- only because he doesn't think his father would appreciate the crass joke. "You should be grateful, though. I risked my life for this, sneaking past your nurse, and your attending."

Elliott is busy with the lid, inhaling the rich aroma, "I am."

The room grows quiet as each man is lost to his own thoughts.

After a few minutes, Elliott starts going on about the light. Not wanting to interrupt his father's thoughts, Soul listens. But he has become very confused.

"Dad?" he hesitantly asks, the familial word feeling awkward from years of disuse.

"What is the most important thing to remember about architecture?" his father asks, as he continues working on a sketch.

"Location," Soul offers.

"Yes, because you have to follow the light," his father is grinning. "Did you realize that living at the lake house?"

"Well, I hadn't thought about it," Soul says, but now that he is, he realizes that the house is set so that the light illuminates the space, but in a controlled manner. "They teach it in school. But yes- clearly you used it to your advantage at the lake."

Elliott chuckles heartily, "Any architect worth his salt, Soul, must consult with nature. Light enhances, but it can also destroy. Always follow the light."

Soul observes his father until the man falls asleep. Afterwards, he picks up the drawing, and the mechanical pencils, setting everything carefully back in his father's satchel. It's a quarter to midnight when he heads back to the lake house to drop off the letter and get some sleep before returning to the hospital.

* * *

Maka wakes up early. She drives out to the lake house on a hunch, and she's rewarded with a letter. It's dated for yesterday (two years ago), and she doesn't linger. Parking in her reserved spot, she takes a moment to read the letter. It feels as if a bucket of cold water has been dumped on her.

Folding the paper carefully, she tucks it into her bag and runs inside. Her first stop is medical records, the E section.

 _Elliott. Elliott. Elliott Evans._

It's a mantra going through her head. At the same time, she dreads finding it. Finally, she has it; flipping it open, she runs her finger down the page. Stops when she sees the date. Maka double-checks it against her phone. It's today's date, two years prior, but- shit. _Shit!_

Moments later she bursts into Stein's office. "Dr. Stein," she says, heedless of knocking. Thankfully, he is at his computer. Looking up unfazed by the interruption, he adjusts the screw on his head- eyes hidden behind the glare of his glasses. "I- uh, have a family emergency. I'll be gone for a few hours. Sorry to interrupt."

When he doesn't say anything, she turns to leave. Before she is out the door, he calls out, "Be sure it's reflected on your timecard." It doesn't matter. She'll take care of it later.

At her car, she's lost. What can she possibly do from this side of time anyway?

* * *

Soul is driving to the hospital when his phone goes off. He fumbles for a minute before he grasps the thing and answers, "This is Soul."

"Mister Evans? It's Dr. Stein from DCR." Soul looks at the clock on the dash of the truck. He thought he'd have plenty of time to get back before the surgery.

"Yeah," he says carefully.

"I'm afraid I have some bad news."

Soul gets the disclaimer bits, but he isn't listening anymore. His father had the surgery moved up to first thing, as he'd wanted it over-with as quickly as possible. Soul hmms and uh-huhs at the appropriate places, but he's no longer present. He's gone- Elliott Evans is gone. After a few minutes, Soul realizes the line is dead, so he hangs up and turns the truck around.

The rest of the drive is a meaningless blur. On auto pilot he turns into the drive, and a splash of red greets him, the only color among the neutrals of dead earth all around.

His heart aches- is it because his father is gone, or because she is here? He'd run home last night to drop off the letter and sleep. When he left the flag was down. Getting out of the truck, he trudges to the mailbox.

Inside he finds a wrapped package and a letter.

Soul,

I'm so sorry. If there is one thing I could do for you today, it would be to be there with you. Like you have been there for me. I did find one thing, it won't be published for a few years, but I hope it helps.

-Maka

It's funny how her words alone are enough to ease some of the tightness that grips his chest. How did she find out? He remembers she works at the hospital…that strange feeling he'd gotten last night while writing to her, was that it? She had really been there? She would have had access to the medical records, how else would she have found out?

He puts the letter carefully inside his jacket and walks to the kitchen with the package in his hand. Inside, he sits, staring at the brown paper wrapped object. Is it the memoir his father had been working on? It's possible, but Elliott hadn't finished it, not to his knowledge anyway. So he opens the paper to reveal a book, but not the one he'd thought it'd be.

" _The works of Elliott Evans."_

It is a book of his father's architectural successes. Soul flips through it, the lump in his throat growing with each picture. Towards the end there are pictures of the lake house. And then, there it is, almost a full page spread captioned: Elliott Evans with his youngest son, at their lake house project.

Wes and Mother are in the frame, off in the distance and out of focus, but Elliott is down on one knee and has a hand on Soul's shoulder, pulling him in tight as they look across the water to the house. Before Mother had moved out.

That's when it hits him like a ton of bricks. It's him and Wes. That's it. That's all that is left of their family. A wave of loneliness washing over him, he clutches the book Maka has given him, and his heart constricts with a different sort of pain.

 _Maka._

He needs to see her again. Needs to know they can exist on the same metaphysical plane...

He isn't sure what's happened when the first sob escapes him; it's the sound of a man gasping for air. Before he realizes it, he's crying. Lost-to-the-world and abandoned, a child crying for the loss of his parents. The worst part is he's not sure what hurts worse, his father being gone, or knowing he can't reach out to Maka the way he needs.

There's no point in trying to stem the pain, so he folds over the book, giving into the loss.

 **Maka...**

...sits on her bed wondering why she's feeling so hesitant. Her bed is covered in letters. They've been getting progressively bigger. They all say a variation of the following:

I want to meet you. FOR REAL THIS TIME!

It's flattering. Holy Death, it's flattering, and she really has no excuse not to. She has sincerely thought of how much she has wanted this, but what about time? He'll have to wait- two years! Is it even fair to ask that of anyone? So much can change...

When she looks to Blair for answers, the cat only returns her stare. "You're no help," Maka sighs, rubbing behind an ear while Blair purrs.

…

On her drive out to the lake house, Maka feels elated. She is going to take a chance.

* * *

Soul has been staking out his mailbox ever since he sent her the notes. She hasn't responded yet. He needs to rein in his feelings, because he is completely losing his cool.

The flag goes up; it's a mad dash to the box.

Soul, I'm not sure about this.

Why not? He scribbles.

You do realize you're going to have to wait? Two years, Soul. It's a long time.

Yes, he's thought about it, and it seems like such a small price to pay. I'm there, Maka.

Okay.

Okay?

Yes, Soul.

To say he's elated is an understatement. He's cheering at the mailbox. Maka, where would you like to go?

The answer comes back, Il Morte. I'll see you in two years.

He's not going to let her trepidation get him down. Maka, he writes. I'll see you tomorrow.

Inside the house he calls the restaurant.

"Il Morte, how may I help you?" a girlish voice answers.

"Ah, yes. I'd like to make a reservation," Soul says, doing his best not to stammer through it.

"May I have the date and the number of your party, Mister….?" the voice asks.

"Evans- two. And the date is for two years from tomorrow." The smile is making it hard to talk.

"Two years?" the girls tone is questioning.

"Yes," he says, grin taking over. "From tomorrow."

"Ah, okay. I'm sure we'll be able to accommodate you, Mr. Evans."

At the restaurant, the girl marks the reservation, adding multiple asterisks.

* * *

To say her heart isn't going a million miles an hour would be a lie. Maka is so excited to finally be meeting Soul. She has picked out her outfit carefully. A simple black dress, with sheer black sleeves and modest neckline.

She arrives at Il Morte at five till seven.

The matri'de, with the shocking pink hair and acid green eyes, looks at her expectantly, "Name?"

"Ah. Albarn," Maka says automatically as the girl scans the list, her resting bitch face becoming more so. "Or, maybe Evans. I'm not really sure."

The face takes on radiant life after all. "Evans," she breathes out in wonder, smile softening her sharp features. "Of course. Right this way."

A few minutes later, after being shown to an excellent table, a server whispers, "Good luck!"

Maka feels a blush coloring her features. Soul has yet to arrive, so she distracts herself by straightening the menu on his salad plate. Wonders what he'll look like, and if she'll know it's him- like he knew it was her at the train station.

Another server arrives to offer her a glass of wine, compliments of the house.

Time moves strangely.

She finds herself looking around each time the door chimes. They never did exchange numbers, so after half an hour she wonders if he got caught in traffic? What becomes clear as the night progresses is- he is not coming.

Her heart feels heavy in her chest. This can't be happening, he wouldn't do this to her. Would he? No, not the Soul she has grown to trust- something, _something_ must have happened.

An hour later, she is still alone. The servers and a few of the older, more oblivious diners have given her pitying looks. It's making her angry. She isn't hungry, she's feeling humiliated and hurt. So much hurt.

Why, Soul? Why would he do this to her?

The sinking feeling in her gut is one she understands well. Because of pride, she refuses to leave. She isn't hungry, but if she leaves- it's real. He stood her up, and right now, she just. Can't. Face that.

Over the course of the evening- of feeling sorry for herself as she rightly should- her thoughts drift to questioning the series of events that got her here in the first place. How could she let herself end up in this humiliating, hurtful situation? It is then that throat becomes tight remembering _him_ , how she had failed him.

The man who died in her arms, on Valentine's Day.

Had he been on his way to dinner? Had his date been stood up? What about his family? Was there anyone waiting for him?

Gradually, Maka's heartbeat slows to a normal pace. Maybe, maybe there is a good reason Soul didn't show up. Realizing how dependent she has let herself become in this relationship, she gets up with a firm plan in place.

Perhaps nothing is around the corner or perhaps there is something. But, it isn't for her to decide. Before she pays for her drink, she makes the decision to end this, whatever this was- this is the end. Her heart hurts, but the walls she subconsciously creates are helping. There is nothing wrong with being alone.

…

The next day, she drives out to the lake house. Her eyes well up only a little as she writes to him, with the understanding that if he is at the mailbox, he may have a few questions, but if he cannot accept her decision- she sighs, knowing even as she thinks it, he's a better person that that.

* * *

Soul wakes, trying so hard not to be jealous of his future self. The first thing he does is check for the flag; seeing it's up, he collects his pad and pen.

On his way to the mailbox, he has a fleeting thought, but it dissipates as he opens the box.

You weren't there. You didn't come.

It feels as if the ground has opened up to swallow him whole. He's scrambling, how does he salvage this? From everything he's gathered from their relationship thus far, she's more guarded and less forgiving than he is.

Maka, I'm so sorry. I don't understand, something must have happened.

No, Soul, it's too late, it already happened. It didn't work.

He can feel her distancing herself.

Don't give up on me, Maka. What about Persuasion? You said they meet again, they get a second chance. Please, Maka, I still have time.

He hasn't felt a fear like this since before his mother got sick. Soul is desperate, he wants her to wait, but he would never force her to. Like he even could. Fuck, fuck, FUCK! This will be it for him. He knows himself well enough to know, there will be no other. He gave up on praying long ago, but his heart doesn't stop from fervently hoping she does not go through with this.

Life is not a book, Soul, and it can be over in a second. I was having lunch with my father at Death Plaza, and a man was killed right in front of me, he died in my arms. And I thought, it can end like that... on Valentine's. I thought about all the people who must have loved him, everyone waiting at home who will never see him again. And then I thought, what if there is no one? What if you live your whole life, and no one is waiting?! So, I drove to the lake house looking for any kind of answer, and I found you; and I let myself get lost in this beautiful fantasy where time stood still. But it's not real, Soul. I have to learn to live the life I've got. Please don't write anymore. Don't try to find me. Let me let you go.

...

That was the last he'd heard from her. There's no way around the pain. True to her word, Maka hasn't written to him since their broken date. He can't say that he's surprised, but he's in too deep. He doesn't write to her every day, but the letters are starting to stack up.

As the year progresses, he realizes that he has to move on. Not from his feelings, it's just that- something in his heart is telling him the time to go is approaching. Of course! She still has to live at the lake house.

Soul begins to work on a side project, a drawing of the lake house he started when his father passed. At first it becomes a task to help him pass time, but then, as this feeling of impending change takes hold, he works on it more and more, pouring his soul into it, preparing for something he doesn't quite understand as his little project resonates deeply for him.

...

On the day Cat disappears, he knows that everything has been set in motion. He's already signed off on his new lease in the city. The lake house is packed up. Soul's last act is to collect the letters he's written, so he bundles them. Maka's last letter is on top of the stack.

This doesn't signify the end. No, he knows Maka will find the box in the attic, when he sets it up there it's as if it's home. He isn't giving up, he's trusting the _fucking unknown_.

As he's driving to his next destination, he wonders if he shouldn't have returned her book to her when she'd asked. But no, he'd done something crazy instead. It doesn't matter, it's a long shot now that he thinks about it, but he trusts she'll find it at the right time. Whatever time that may be.

On his way, he stops in front of the small mortuary, Thorne & Son. Not sure how this is going to go down, but Mortimer is the only connection to Maka he's met in his time.

Soul is halfway to the door when Kid saves him the trouble by stepping outside to meet him.

"What are you doing here?" the man asks.

The icy reception is expected, so Soul states his business. "Here," he says, handing Kid the keys to the lake house along with the legal paperwork.

Kid looks at small key ring now in his hands, then levels Soul with an untrusting, calculated look. "What is this?"

"The keys to the lake house." When the black haired man continues to stare, Soul adds, "Look, I'm sorry- it's for Maka-"

"You've got some nerve," Kid interrupts.

"It's what she wants," Soul says, confident that even if they broke up, the man, with the curious striped hair, still wants what's best for her.

They give each other a grim nod before Soul departs, leaving the other to stand on the sidewalk dumbfounded.

Soul watches, Kid from the rearview as he waits for a car to pass. As he's pulling from the curb, he sees the dark streak running for the truck. He can't believe it, it's Blair- it must be. He's already to the end of the corner when he see's Kid bend to pick up the cat. And it's comforting, knowing Kid will pass her along with the keys to the house.

 **Maka**

Spirit watches her closely as she eats the bento box he's prepared for them. She can feel his paternal stare and it makes her feel itchy. It's Saturday, and she came over for lunch. On the one hand, she can tell he's trying not to fret over how thin she's become these past few months; he knows how much she hates his prying concern.

"Maka, are you getting enough to eat?" he plows right over his restraint, and she tries not to scowl.

Tersely she responds, "Yes." End of conversation.

Papa is long used to this, so she's not surprised when he tries again, "How are things at the hospital?"

Maka blinks, Papa is making conversation for her sake, she realizes, feeling guilty. "Ah- they're well. Marie is pregnant. Um, it's Dr. Stein's, they haven't exactly said anything- eh, it's not my business." The conversation is awkward and halting.

"Oh," Spirit offers. "That's...great?"

"I suppose so, yes," she sighs, finishing her lunch.

"And you?" Spirit asks.

"Me?" Maka glares, indignant. "Of course, I'm not pregnant."

"N-no! That wasn't what I meant," Spirit says, deflating. How could she know Papa had become accustomed to seeing her carrying around a journal he'd given her mama long ago? How could she know he wouldn't want to say anything lest she stop carrying it. "Ah, are you still writing?" She can tell he's being cautious.

"Writing?" her green eyes narrow.

"I noticed you stopped carrying the journal- the one I gave...Marika. I- I didn't want to pry." How could he possibly understand what's happened? But he's obviously observed enough to know something has changed.

"No, I'm not writing anymore Papa."

She sees her father looking intently at her out of the corner of her eye, and wills herself not to cry. She doesn't cry. "I'm sorry I asked," he says.

"No, Papa. It's fine," Maka says, looking up and smiling. "Thank you for lunch. I've got to go." Taking her utensils into the kitchen, Spirit follows her. "Please don't worry about me," she says.

Spirit touches the end of one of her twin tails. "Sorry pumpkin, I'll try my best, but it's what papas do."

…

Back at her apartment, Maka feels listless and full of nervous energy. She's cleaned, she's put together lunches for her work week, and she ran this morning before going to Papa's for lunch.

In her room, she's flipping through the ten channels she gets on her antenna. One of the stations is playing that one movie, the one that was on in the breakroom when Marie had asked her about waiting. Seeing as nothing else has captured her attention, she leaves it on, curling up on her pillows.

A few hours later, she wakes up to a strange, high-pitched keening. The floor is thumping due to the loud music her downstairs neighbor is blaring, the keening clearly heard over the music in time with a different, steady whumping sound that is punctuated by her neighbors grunts.

She's only met him once, but once was enough. Gririko is gross; he made a pass at her at the mail center. And when she made it absolutely clear she wasn't interested, he started harassing her. Calling her tiny tits whenever he'd spot her, especially if he had his arm draped around some busty woman.

Seldom does she let stupid things like that get to her, but after Papa asking about the journal, the movie, and now this shit? Maka is pissed. Jumping off the bed to exit her room, she steps on the freaking loose floorboard- she's lost count of the many times she's asked maintenance to fix it. And it's the last straw!

Like a woman possessed, Maka starts stomping on the floor until her foot goes through, the wood slat popping it up like a see saw. It clatters down near her bed, and she sinks to the ground close to tears, dreading the loss of her deposit.

Loud shouts of, "What the fuck, bitch!" are heard over the din of the music. Maka is past caring.

From the floor, she spots something in the cavity opened by her tantrum. Using her phone to illuminate the gloom, she fishes out a small rectangular package, wrapped in plastic. Carefully, she opens the plastic bag to find a book.

It's _Persuasion_ by Jane Austen.

Maka's breath catches in her throat. It can't be.

With shaking hands, she opens the book to the back cover and her Mama's handwriting greets her as confirmation, but- but then that means.

 _Soul._

She doesn't want to think his name, because it cuts her. He did this. Left it here for her. And it hurts, how it hurts.

It's Saturday night. She's crying silently on her bedroom floor as the heat of the emotions overwhelm her- her heart is racing. Why is it so hard to put a name to what she's going through? What is this? It can't be love, love-shouldn't feel physically painful.

The book is clutched to her heart as silent sobs wrack her body. There isn't enough air in her lungs- she must look like a gaping fish because Maka Albarn doesn't cry. Especially not over the ridiculous notion of _love- true love._ A love that can cross through time and space.

* * *

Soul is bent over his drawing board while Wes watches him work. "You're obsessed," his brother says it carefully.

He ignores him, hand working over the paper using various triangles to get the lines and angles just right.

"Why are you working on the lake house, anyway? Shouldn't you be focused on your own projects?"

Soul pauses, looking at his brother holding a beer. "I'm not obsessed, I want to get it right. 's all. _It's her's._ "

"Who's?" Wes asks. "The girl from the future?"

 _Fuck,_ Soul nods, he won't say her name.

"Are you still writing to her?"

The mechanical pencil pauses. "No," he picks up on the line again. "She asked me not to."

His brother scoffs, "Good, you need to get out there Soul. Find yourself a real woman, get laid- something."

"Goddamnit Wes," Soul backs away from the drawing, hating that Wes tends to make him spill shit he doesn't want to talk about. "Listen, while it lasted- she was more real than anything. I kissed her. I held her. I loved her. I don't need to go 'find' anything to prove that. So just- fucking back off."

Wes is speechless, face frozen in a pained expression that must mirror Soul's. Well, he thinks, his brother shouldn't push, it isn't his place.

Finishing his beer, it sounds like Wes says something else, but it's too soft. "I'm sorry." A hand claps Soul's shoulder, and then the pressure is gone, followed by the sound of the apartment door closing. Soul turns back to the drawing. The soft sounds of graphite on vellum fill the void.

…

The year passes in a blur, and before Soul knows it, Wes is hounding him to bring his cute office administrator to his New Year's Eve party. Soul reminds his brother, yet again, that Liz is now in real estate, but he invites her nonetheless. Liz is happy to hear from him, and accepts as long as Patty is welcome.

...

Patty is saddened to learn that Soul lost his cat, but given how the cat ran off the one and only time he took her to the vet, he doesn't see how this can be news to anyone. Cat came to his life by her own decision, and she left it in much the same way.

Liz and Wes hit it off _way_ before traditional kiss time, so Patty peaces out early. Soul spends the remainder of the evening sequestered to the balcony of his brother's high rise apartment, while the rest of the guests drink his brother's booze and "live it up" ringing in the New Year.

2016 has arrived! The time he spent writing to her, or waiting to hear from her flew from his hands like sand lost on the desert winds. The past year had crawled, and now- Soul isn't sure what comes next.

A part of him hates knowing she's at the lake house- she mails her checks to the trust dutifully every month. Soul would never dream of disrespecting her space by daring to go out to the lake house; he values her too much to do that. He knows she'll be moving soon anyway, moving here to the city. His poor wasted heart gleans life from this idea, but, it isn't an invitation. And while he had written- he won't break that request- _don't try to find me_.

* * *

Maka crumples a napkin in her lap as the sounds of the countdown begin. Baby Victor is fast asleep in his car carrier while his parents still dance around the mostly deserted dance floor.

Dr. Stein finally asked Marie to marry him after delivering their son. Marie, being the practical and very capable woman she is, had the whole event planned and set for a month and a day after the birth.

So, Maka finds herself in good company as the year counts down to 2018! A part of her desperately wants to return to the lake house, to be sure she made the right choice. Another part of her whispers terrible words, why would he wait for you? No, she told him to leave her alone, and he has held true. So, she returns to shredding the napkin.

Marie dances her way into the chair next to Maka. "How is he?" she asks, looking in on the sleeping child herself.

"Hasn't moved," Maka offers. "Hey!" she hisses, because Marie jabbed a bony finger in her side.

"Oh good," the blushing bride smiles. "I hadn't seen you move since we cut the cake. Happy New Year, Maka!"

"You too Marie," the young doctor smiles.

"Oh! I almost forgot. Here." Maka reaches tentatively for the card Marie has extended to her: _Liz Thompson Consultant._

"Consultant?" she stares at the card, confused.

"She's a real estate agent here in Death City. Knows her stuff, too. She's helping Frank and I find a place close to work, but with a little more space for Victor to play." Marie is now twisting a napkin of her own. "I just, I know you're looking to get away from your apartment. If I've overstepped, I'm really sorry. I just thought-"

Maka blinks at her friend then embraces her, saying. "No, you didn't- Thank you. I appreciate it, Marie. I really do." Letting go, she pockets the card.

…

The next few weeks fly by in a breeze. Liz is great to work with, and Maka ends up really liking the the fast-talking blond.

They met initially to go over Maka's wish list: something small she could renovate, a place that could get light, and one that had some land that could support the palo verde and curlleaf mahogany trees she had grown to love from the lake house.

Her phone goes off while she's writing up her notes on her second patient of the morning.

Liz doesn't wait for a proper greeting before she starts, "Maka! I found it. If you can meet over lunch, I'll show it to you."

"Ah-uh, okay-" Maka barely gets out as the phone buzzes in her hand indicating the address.

"You're going to love it!" Liz squeals, and the line goes silent.

…

A few hours later they're touring the space. "You're right," she tells Liz, as the taller blond shows her the different levels.

"Right?" Liz's bright demeanor is infectious. "She's got great bones, and my boyfriend's firm specializes in renovations. Ah- not that I'm trying to- if you want a different referral for an architect, I can find another. I wasn't trying to get him business," Liz stammers as she tries to correct herself.

"Liz," Maka says. "It's fine. I have no idea about any of this. Is he...expen-"

Liz cuts her off. "No, it's a new firm, so they're a little more affordable. Sorry, I totally interrupted."

Maka shakes her head, running a hand over the old wood work, "It's fine, sure. Could you set up the meeting?"

"Absolutely, no problem at all. Are there any dates that don't work for you?" she asks, phone already out and open to her planner.

"Nope, I'm free," Maka replies, walking around.

"What about next week…" Liz's voice trails from the adjoining room. "The- fourteenth? Shit that's-"

"It's perfect. I don't have any plans on the fourteenth," Maka says, interrupting Liz's train of thought.

"Ah, okay." Her response is delayed, and there's something coloring her tone. Maka doesn't want to pry. "I'll send you the details of the appointment. How early is too early?"

"Anytime works great, Liz." Maka says, quietly. She has taken to requesting the day off anyway. Dr. Stein is understanding, _the first one never leaves you._

With the details worked out, Maka and Liz go their separate ways. The doctor finally feels strangely optimistic about this new direction in her life. Liz is right. This is it, this place is going to be her home. But as she eyes the property from her rearview mirror, she feels a pang of longing for the lake house

* * *

Soul wakes to the sounds of someone banging around in his kitchen. Cautiously, he grabs the baseball bat he keeps next to his bed and goes to investigate. "Christ, shouldn't you knock, dipshit?"

Wes, looks over his shoulder. "Did I miss the almighty? Didn't know he was here, too!"

"That joke has been lame since you were in the seventh grade," Soul deadpans, walking to his cupboard to retrieve a mug. At least his brother had the decency to make coffee. "What are you doing here anyway?" he asks.

The elder Evans indicates a manila folder on the island. "For you, to review. And… when you're ready, we'll sign it."

Soul eyes the package with scepticism. "Sign what?"

"The legal documents for Resonance Design. It's all right there, we're doing it," he says, tone full of confidence and optimism Soul rarely shares these days.

"Yeah-no." Soul responds, and promptly burns his tongue on the hot liquid. "Ah, fuck."

He hasn't seen heads or tails of his brother since New Year's, and he has strong reason to suspect Liz. Then, all of a sudden, the man just waltzes in with his company ready to be signed off on. Something is up. "What's the catch, Wes." No question.

"Ah-wha? No catch. I'm serious." Wes looks like he's about to unload the heavy shit. "Look, Dad's gone, Liz just sold the last lot of your subdivision, and you need to-to-"

"To what? Move on?" Soul supplies, feeling confrontational this early in the morning.

"No," his brother sighs. "I- Soul, I just want to see you living again. 's all."

Soul has the decency to feel guilt for the look his brother gives him. "Yeah, alright. I'll look it over."

His brother ends up staying most of the morning; they eat, shoot the shit, and after Soul gets dressed, after they head out of the building together.

A glorious day greets them.

"The hell is this?" Wes asks, shucking his blazer. "It's got to be at least 60 degrees. Man, I might have to change up my plans with Liz."

"Why? What's going on?"

"It's Valentine's Day, Little Brother. I'm taking her out. Was going to do dinner but it's so nice, maybe we could go to the country club or something."

Soul stops listening as he's desperately trying to piece together some important information. "Wait! Say that again?"

"Was going to take her out-"

Soul cuts over Wes. "No- what day is it?"

"Valentine's." Wes is sarcastic, feeling perturbed at being interrupted. Bewildered as his little brother whispers it back. "Yes, as in February fourteenth-

"2016!" They both say in unison.

"Shit-fuck!" Is the last thing Soul says as he runs to his bike, leaving his brother to once again fret about his mental state as he dons his motorcycle gear.

* * *

Maka double-checks the address on her phone, looking at the clean facade of the building. Resonance Design is listed on the placard in a clean script that looks vaguely familiar. She brushes the thought away as she enters and is shown to a small, contemporary sitting area.

"He'll be with you in just a moment, Dr. Albarn." The receptionist says. Maka smiles in return, sitting down to wait.

A few minutes later a man enters. "Dr. Albarn?" He asks, extending a hand. "Welcome, please, follow me."

Shaking his hand, she follows him to an adjoining conference room. The space is light and clean, with a few projects and pictures hanging on the walls. The man pulls out a chair for her to sit. He then skirts around the table.

An assistant turns down the lights, the digital monitor coming to life. "Before we start, would you like a water Dr. Albarn-"

"Maka." She interrupts, a little embarrassed to be addressed so formally outside of the hospital. "Please, Maka is fine. And no, I'm okay, really."

The man blinks for a second, and then recovers. "Maka. Okay then! Ah well." He's clearly flustered; after taking a drink of his own water, he straightens his suit jacket and continues. "We have created a few digital renderings to illustrate what we plan on doing."

The first slide shows the front facade, and it's everything she could have hoped for. "We've changed up the roofline to incorporate the glass curtain wall you expressed wanting."

"Yes, that's perfect," she breathes.

He continues with the presentation, explaining details about the rainwater capturing system, the energy efficient windows, appliances, and exterior finishes. Sustainable flooring materials, low VOC interior finishes, and an option to convert to solar energy.

Maka is enthralled, and for the first time in such a long time, she finds herself excited about the prospect of the future. At the end as they stand up, shaking hands, he hands her a card- realizing she hadn't caught his name, she's scanning the card when a reflection catches her eye.

It is a drawing on the opposite side of the conference room. Her heart skips a beat. She would know those trees, that bridge, and that structure anywhere- it's the lake house.

Heart hammering in her chest, Maka feels shaky as she crosses the room and stands before it.

"W-who made this?" she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

"Ah-uh, my brother," the man says.

 _Brother?!_ "What's his name?" she has to know.

"Solomon," he says, the voice sounds strained, but then it's followed by a low chuckled. "He'd be so embarrassed...he went by Soul?"

 _Soul!_

She nearly chokes on the name. Her hand hovers hesitantly over the glass and frame, her fingers shaking.

"Did you know him?" the brother she never knew about asks.

"Yeah," it's a small, emotionally strained sound. Maka clears her throat, and tries again for more confidence. "Do you know how I could get ahold of him?"

There is a long, drawn out silence. Maka almost turns around but he starts speaking before she can.

"I'm sorry, you can't," the man says, sounding upset- she wonders why Soul had never mentioned him. Perhaps they had a strained relationshi- "You see, he died," he adds, and the meaning of his words and tone sink in.

"Ohmygod, what? I'm so- so sorry," she responds reflexively, but nothing exists in her world in this moment, aside from the ringing sound of silence in her ears. _What?!_

"It was a motorcycle accident, two years ago…" There is a shaky exhale of breath, followed by a strained, "...today, actually. I'm sorry- you probably didn't-"

"Where?" she asks, cutting him off before her voice is choked by the rising knot. It's hard to breathe, her brain working faster than her lungs.

"...It was Death Plaza."

The card, her purse, her jacket, and her phone are all clutched tightly to her chest. It isn't until she pulls on the locked door handle of her car that she realizes she's made it outside the building with no recollection of having actually left. She's running out of time.

* * *

Okay, he promised. He promised he'd never look for her, but he knows where she's going to be, so it doesn't count, maybe. If he can just see her one last time, he'll be able to let go.

The sound of the wind whipping around his helmet is loud and comforting as he races to the lake house. Matilda skids to a stop on the gravel drive as he secures the kick stand before running across the bridge.

Time feels funky, he crosses the rooms, and heads for the utility room to pull down the attic ladder. He fumbles with the box for a minute before he's reading through her letter.

 _I was having lunch with my father at_ _ **Death Plaza,**_ _and a man was killed right in front of me, he died in my arms. And I thought, it can end like that... on_ _ **Valentine's**_ _._

He stuffs the letter into his pocket.

* * *

NO! No, no, no! Maka is fighting tears and traffic as she drives out of the city. The lake house is her only destination. Trying desperately to take deep breaths because the danger of hyperventilation is very real at the moment. She hasn't written to him since she cut him out of her life! There is no possible way he would have been able to make the date. It was him!

He died in her arms!

She chokes on a sob as the road vanishes from sight for a moment. Maka scrubs a fist across her eyes to clear her tears. Please! Please! Please!

The car skids to a stop on the gravel drive. Maka grabs her journal and begins to write. Feelings and emotions pour out of her in a torrent of ink on paper.

Soul,

I know now why you weren't there that night. It was you at Death Plaza that day. I love you, and it's taken me this long to admit it to myself- to you. Please, Soul, please if you loved me, please don't try to find me. Wait for me, wait with me. Then come to the lake house, I am here.

Maka

There's no time for more, Maka sprints to the mailbox and places the letter inside, hands shaking as she raises the flag. Why? How- why had it taken her so long to understand this?!

* * *

A young man walks through the crowds, garnering curious looks because he's dressed in motorcycle leathers. Across the busy street is Death Plaza, the spring sunlight illuminating the hair of a beautiful woman eating lunch next to a man with vivid red hair.

The leather-clad man approaches the curb, drawn to the scene across the way. His curious white hair is ruffled as a bus blows past him.

He takes a small step back, pulling out a folded, crumpled piece of paper. Three words burn deep within his soul: _I love you._

Carefully he folds the paper and places it back in his breast pocket.

* * *

s

Maka sinks down to her knees, shaking, not knowing if she was able to reach him. Tries not to lose herself in the very real despair that had driven her to this very spot to find this very man.

The minutes tick by as she pleads with fate. Please. Please. Please

There is a soft creak above her head. Sniffling, she looks up. The flag is down.

Her heart is drumming painfully, her body is shaking, and then her ears catch the sound of a throaty motor.

She picks herself up, using the mailbox to steady herself. A bright orange motorcycle comes into view, parking halfway down the drive. Maka scrubs her eyes and has a moment of self doubt- what if it isn't him...and if it is- she's a mess. The hiccup confirms the latter.

A man with stark white hair takes long strides towards her, her racing heart stuck permanently somewhere up near her throat.

"Soul?" It's barely a whisper. And then, she's running to him; he meets her halfway; his strong arms wrapping around her small frame, pulling her close. "Maka."

Her hands are cupping his jaw, their foreheads pressed tightly together. "You waited?" she breathes, staring into his deep, red eyes.

Soul stares into the green eyes that have haunted his dreams. Both are nudging their noses together, his hand fisting in the hair at the base of her neck. Even this might be enough, but they both laugh, shaking their heads at the same time. She tugs gently on his jaw and he meets her eagerly, their lips touching. Softly at first, but the magnitude of everything that they've been through hits hard, and soon they are both breathless, pressed tightly together.

"I love you." He whispers it over and over.

"I love you, Soul," she returns.

From the distance, a curious purple cat watches the pair walk hand in hand across the bridge to the lake house. Ocher yellow eyes gleam until she disappears in a puff of purple smoke into the unknown.

 **The End**


	4. Epilogue

**The Brother**

He wakes up in the morning with the worst case of the heebie jeebies he's ever felt. Rolling to his side, he brushes a kiss onto his girlfriend's naked shoulder. "Babe, I'll be back. I have to go check something out." The blond lets out a sleepy, mhm as he gives her one last kiss after he's dressed himself, and grabs his keys from the counter-top.

He had the most unsettling dream, and it stays with him the entire way out of town. But, before he knows it, he's arrived at his destination. There's a car parked in the driveway- he thinks he's seen it out here before. A few people use the drive as a place to park while they walk around.

The planks of the bridge echo as he stomps his way across the bridge, still groggy. The sun isn't up yet, so it's as his brother would say, fuck o'clock. This is probably a stupid thing, but he still can't shake the horrible feeling.

Letting himself in using the spare key, he hollers, "SOUL!"

Wes isn't entirely prepared when a small blond woman comes out of his brother's room brandishing the baseball bat. "Dr. Albarn? What are you- ah." He turns away quickly, having seen entirely too much of his client's legs peeking out of one of his brother's old band t-shirts. "Shit-fuck, sorry. But, um...can I talk to my brother?"

"He's...sleeping," she stammers. Realizing her current situation, she gives an 'oh' of exclamation.

It's at this point that Soul emerges from the bedroom, wearing nothing but low slung sweatpants. "Wes?" he asks, followed by a loud, umpf. "The fuck's going on?"

Wes makes a strangled sound, like a donkey choking, looking for all the world like he's seen the dead. Emotional, he crosses the room to strangle Soul in a strong embrace.

"Wes, what the fuck?" Soul asks, attempting to extricate himself from his brother's arms. "Are you okay? Shit- is Liz okay?"

The elder Evans nods his head, devoid of the ability to make words.

"Why are you crying?" Soul asks, awkwardly holding his big brother.

"I-I," Wes tries hard to steady himself. "I had a dream you were d-dead." The words hang in the air. "Fuck, it felt so fucking real. I'm-" There's a strangled sound that could have been laughter. "I'm so embarrassed, but, fuck-" He hangs on the vowel, "-it felt so real…"

"Well…" Soul pats Wes awkwardly. "I'm here. Dude, but seriously, you're going to freak Maka out."

Wes stares at the woman in question, and then regaining some of his dignity, he holds out his hand. "Sorry, I never did introduce myself yesterday. I'm Wes Evans. I see you _found_ him," he says.

Maka stares at Wes, who is staring at Soul who has his hands in his hair. "Sorry, Soul. It's just, I've no idea what happened. I'm sorry I intruded...," Wes says. Turning to Maka, he silently mouths, "thank you," and she nods once.

Then Wes, after insisting they come over for a cook out later that day, leaves.

After a very pregnant pause, Soul scoops up Maka into his arms. "You know what the best part of being alive is, right now?" he asks. With her legs wrapped around him tightly, blush burning brightly behind her freckles, Maka shakes her head. "This," he says, kissing her softly.

"I love you," she says to him as he carries her back to bed.


End file.
